


From the Wreckage

by sp_oops



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (mild anyway), Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Double Vaginal Penetration, F/M, Grace Kink, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Voyeurism, implied bottom!dean, implied top!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9241850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp_oops/pseuds/sp_oops
Summary: Takes place during 12x01 with flashbacks to 11x23.The last 24 hours have been bad enough—Dean’s soul-bomb sacrifice; Cas’ despair as he kissed his boyfriend goodbye; your regret over not telling them your feelings on the off-chance they’d want you, too. Now these British know-it-alls have kidnapped you and Sam, and their favorite pastime is torturing you both for information. Caught up in misery and memory, you’re certain nobody’s left to look for you. (You’re wrong.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if I haven't tagged this accurately enough, and I'll adjust! Rating (and tag volume) to increase. I swear this shiz has a happy ending.
> 
> Part 2 coming on January 14!

Consciousness returns slowly, through a fog so thick it’s muffling sound. And there is a noise, but it’s. . . far away. Where—how did you get. . .

The grief hits before you can even open your eyes.

 _Dean_.

A hug in a graveyard. Fingers tangling, tucked in a deep coat pocket as the dying sun looked on. Heartache, heartsick. Bloody palm on a bloody sigil. A gunshot. Highway lights, heavy limbs, the summertime chirp of insects in tall grass.

The fog rolls back. You blink toward the light.

Ah, shit.

Your head’s heavy, throbbing at the back. Your lip’s split and swollen. The cotton blur fades from your ears, and that far-off noise sharpens; someone’s screaming. No, shit, not _someone,_ it’s _Sam_ , screaming his lungs out somewhere beneath your feet. You’ve gotta get to him. You’ve gotta move—

A cold sweep of pain bursts across your shoulders, down your back; you cry out, gasping as heavy chain links clink together above you. You aren’t cuffed to the chair you’re sat in, since your hands are chained up over your head, but you’ve been here long enough for everything to hurt. The parts of your hands you can feel are freezing. _Great._ At least your ankles are free. _Thanks for that, assholes,_ you think dimly. Heaving for breath, you lift your chin.

That prim British woman from the bunker is sitting across from you, a notebook balanced on her crossed knees, a heavy fountain pen in her hand. Toni Bevell, she’d said. Men of Letters. London Chapterhouse. Her body is blocking a small computer monitor on the desk behind her; you can barely see the black and white edges of the screen. The chain you’re handcuffed to goes all the way to the ceiling, through a metal loop, and then down near a pulley with a lever near the door.

She smiles as you look her over. “Good morning,” she says, serene, like she isn’t raising her voice over the sound of Sam’s broken screaming. “I was hoping the hullabaloo would wake you.”

The manacles dig into your bruise-tender wrists. Grief is a desperate, silent wail you can barely hold back. Dean’s. . . Dean’s _dead_. Cas is who knows where, and—oh, god. Where does a half-assed banishing sigil send an angel with broken wings? How does he get back? _Can_ he? _Cas_ , you send into the void, pleading in a prayer. _Cas, please,_ please _be okay_.

They can’t take Sam, too. They can’t _use_ Sam’s pain to get to you.

Focus up. You can mourn Dean and fear for Cas later. Right now you gotta figure out how to get you and Sam out of this alive. And that starts with not rising to this woman’s bait. You croak, “What do you want?”

“Just to ask a few questions. Nothing untoward.” She tilts her head, smiling. You’d kill to get your lipstick that perfect. “I'd suggest cooperating.”

“And if I don't?”

“I'm sure you can hear how that's going for our dear friend Sam.”

Great. _Great_. You’re in no condition to resist an interrogation. Then again, nobody ever is.

Ugh. How did you get here, again?

* * *

A bloody palm on a bloody sigil. A gunshot—

Nope.

Before that.

Dean’s forehead against yours, his voice hollow. Already dead. _Tell me on the flipside._

Yeah, that’s the one.

You’re standing lock-kneed in a graveyard, soft magnolia petals drifting down on the breeze, watching Dean say goodbye to his mother. Her grave, anyway. He’s standing elbow to elbow with Sam, quiet, and you’re leaning against a grave opposite Cas. Those big blue eyes find yours, so much heartache to echo yours. More, even.

They haven’t even had the chance to be alone with each other since Cas spat out Lucifer this morning. Their one opportunity was that beer run, but Dean actually invited you along. You’d frozen, ready to protest, because holy shit? _What?_ But then even Cas gave you these hopeful, pleading eyes, and what were you supposed to do with that? Say no?

You look away from Cas now, sniffling.

This is _bullshit_.

Yeah, Dean’s sacrifice will save the world, but why does it _always_ have to be a Winchester? And why— _why_. . . you’re trying not to hate Chuck. You really are. But this shit is his fault, and he could get just as fucking close to Amara as Dean could, and if he’s dying anyway. . .

And Dean’s doing that _thing_. The thing where terror keeps flickering across his face before he can force it down, pulling smiles that don’t last. God, you wish you had Cas-level clearance to wrap around him and not let go.

When he turns to you, though, it occurs to you might actually get the chance. That tough-guy facade falls away, and there it is, all his fear, given to you like you can lift the burden from his shoulders.

You guys’ve had silent communication down pat for years now. Why he lets you see so much, you’ll never know.

“Dean.” You’re still trying like hell not to cry. It’s going as shittily as the rest of this day. “Damn it.” You look up at the warped sky, hoping your blurring eyes behave. “I was gonna be cool about this. I really was.”

“Yeah, me too.” His voice is rough, but he tries a smile anyway. He makes it only halfway; his lower lip is wobbling. “Get in here, okay.”

You whump into his arms, burying your face in his shoulder, squeezing him so tight your arms ache. He’s got just as tight of a grip around you. “You asshole,” you sniffle, quiet so the others can’t hear. Except maybe Cas. That’s fine by you. “You self-sacrificing asshole.”

“Well,” he rasps, tilting his mouth toward your ear. “Y’know. I’ve let everybody else down. You were just last on the list.”

“You didn’t let me down. You never have.” You pull in a big gulp of air in effort to chill out. It works, sort of. God, all this and you’re still wired to how his body feels against yours. Sturdy and big and cozy.

“I wish. . . god, kiddo, there’s. . .” He breathes out, still right by your ear. Can he feel the shiver that pulses through you? “Lot I meant to say,” he says at last.

Your heart pounds. He can’t mean what you want him to mean. But in case he does, you whisper, “Me, too.”

He shifts, and his forehead bumps yours, his eyes closed. You watch, greedy for every detail of every freckle. His voice is a rasping mess: “Tell me on the flipside, huh.”

“Yeah.” Your vision’s blurring again. “You bet.”

His mouth lands against your cheek, soft. Lingering. “Watch out for Cas and Sam?”

You breathe him in one last time. “Duh.”

His big hand cups your face, his thumb skimming to catch a tear. You meet his eyes as they search yours, memorizing, apologizing, layered with all kinds of gut-wrenching desperation. When his gaze flickers to your mouth, your whole body tunes to a single realization: _he wants to kiss you_.

Then he’s moving onto Cas, and the moment’s over.

What the hell was that?

Sam, Chuck, and Rowena look away to give Dean and Cas privacy. So do you, mind still reeling over whatever the fuck that lingering look was. Dean doesn’t—he never—he and Cas are _together_. They’re more meant to be than anybody, which is what’s made pining after them so goddamn useless. What, exactly, did Dean want to say to you that he couldn’t?

You glance back. Damn it, you’re hungry for the sight of them, aching to drink in any last look at Dean, at all the tenderness between him and Cas. Their murmurs are too soft to hear, but Dean shifts closer to Cas, putting his mouth by Cas’ ear. Dean’s lips move, and—

And Cas’s eyes snap over to yours with an intensity that makes your stomach drop, not just because he caught you watching them. The meaning is clear enough that your face burns.

Dean’s talking about you.

Dean tips his forehead against Cas’ temple, his brows at a pleading angle as he studies Cas from so close. Cas’ throat pulls up, a thick swallow, then he tears his gaze from yours and takes Dean’s face in his hands.

You look away as they kiss, and _kiss_. One more brief glance is all you’ll give yourself, and _god_ , they’ve turned so you can see the sides of both their faces, sandy jaws working, all the emotion, all the guilt and regret and longing, and. . .

It’s too much, is what it is.

You study your shoes and the crushed petals around them.

You never had a place with them. And now you never will.

* * *

Toni Bevell, Men of Letters, London Chapterhouse, reads your name. Your birthday. Your hometown. Cases you’ve worked, with and without Winchesters. Apocalypses you’ve diverted.

It’s fricking creepy.

You study the room while she speaks, searching for anything you can use. It’s a small space, mostly empty, with whitewashed walls and a battered hardwood floor. Two windows with busted blinds let in the morning light. Gotta be morning, anyway—too many birds chirping for evening.

Beyond the windows, it’s green fields, blue sky. It could be anywhere; it looks like fifty fucking percent of America. And the ride here was a drugged blur of passing highway lights, jostling against the flatbed of the SUV, breathing in the blood-and-bunker smell of Sam.

Jesus. Where the fuck are you?

“You’ve been busy.” Toni leans forward, bringing your attention back to her. “And still you’ve found the time to harbor a crush.”

Heat flares in your face, which sets your split lip throbbing. How in the _fuck_. . .?

“You’re wondering how I know.” She smiles this secret little smile, like you’re _friends_. Like she’s about to share some super hot goss. “Darling, no one would trail the Winchesters as long as you have unless you’re delusional. . . or in love. And since we’re reasonably certain you’re not delusional, well.” She taps her pen against her notebook, waiting.

 _Say nothing_ , you remind yourself. Sam’s screams are breaking down into muffled sobs; anger surges through you. _Cas,_ you pray, hoping your desperation amplifies it. _Cas, where did she send you_?

She goes smug. “Your silence says it all. The question is, which one?”

At least she doesn’t know your own heart. You grit your teeth and wait.

When it’s clear you aren’t going to comment, she sighs. “As you can hear, Sam wasn’t in a cooperating mood.”

You lift a brow, like, _Does it look like I am_?

“All we want is answers. Just a few questions, and you’ll be free to go.”

Oh, that easy, is it. You croak, “With Sam?”

She smiles again. “With Sam.”

You weigh your options. “I don’t believe you.”

“I understand it would be difficult to trust me.”

“No shit,” you snap.

“With _that_ kind of attitude, we aren’t going to get anywhere.” The mirth drains off her face, leaving a cool, level gaze that puts a chill in your heart. She says, “Are you ready to participate?”

You keep your trap shut and glare.

She says, “I want the names and locations of every hunter you’ve worked with in the last five years.”

That’s.

She wants—

Okay, _what_?

“You look confused.” She sits back, tapping her pen once more. “But it’s quite simple. I understand you don’t have your mobile. . .” She’s right; your phone got crushed in that warehouse showdown with Amara. “. . . so phone numbers are out. But names and locations shouldn’t be that difficult.”

You can’t help the ridiculous little giggle that squeaks out of you. Hysterical, maybe, but does she even hear herself? Your voice still sucks, but it’s getting clearer: “Are you for real right now?”

Her mouth sets in a thin line, but she waits.

The effort it takes to speak is _so_ worth her blatant irritation. “You know every monster I’ve hunted since I started hanging out with the Winchesters. You know—fuck, I bet you know how many free nights I got on my Motel 6 rewards card. You probably know when I’m on the rag.” You pause for effect. “But you _seriously_ don’t know who my friends are?”

Her face sinks into a scowly neutral.

You bare your teeth. “Guess you’re not as clever as you think.”

Her cheek twitches. “So you don’t want to share those names and locations.”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you sure? Do you _hear_ what’s happening to Sam? Do you really want to be next?”

You shrug, which sets your muscles flaring with pain again. “ _Ah_. No. But you’re not getting those names.”

She caps her pen. “Very well.”

It’s easy to be cocky out loud. Silently, you’re scared shitless. _Cas, if you’re planning a dramatic rescue, now would be the time_.

She stands up and moves toward the door, finally revealing what’s playing on the black and white monitor on the desk.

It’s a live feed. Gotta be. And it’s _Sam_.

Sam, tied to a chair, and when he flinches, his muffled groan sounds through the floorboards. There’s a woman crouching at his ankles, clearly concentrating on her work, and your stomach rolls at whatever the fuck she could be doing that’s made him scream so loud and so long that he’s lost his voice.

“Gruesome, isn’t it?” Toni kicks the lever at the base of the chain pulley. Your cuffs pull sharply toward the ceiling, yanking you to your feet so fast that your chair gets knocked over, out of reach. For a second you fear the chain might lift you off the ground, but it’s just high enough that your feet stay flat. Enough that agony lances through your back and shoulders.

 _Fuck_.

You’re so busy trying not to panic that you almost miss the brass knuckles she slips over her fingers. Sigils flare orange across the ridges as she steps closer. “You see how this works?”

There’s no time to flinch out of the way; her right hook catches your cheek and pain arrows through your face and shoulders as you wrench in your bonds, gasping. Warmth tickles down your jaw and neck.

“Don’t make me do this. Give us those names, and we’ll leave Sam alone. We’ll leave _you_ alone.”

 _Cas_ , you force through your muddled mind _. Cas, please—_

Her next punch sinks into your belly, and your stomach tries to empty everything that isn’t in it. Half retching on the taste of bile, you stumble back, barely breathing through the pain. It hurts too much to even shout, though god, you want to. At least then Sam would know he’s not alone. Or is he in the same situation, watching a livestream of you getting your ass handed to you?

Toni yanks your head up by your hair, close. God damn it, your lips are too numb to get a good spit on without drooling down your chin. “This continues,” she says. “You, Sam—we can do this all day. But until one of you breaks, you’re going to hang here, and he’s going to keep on suffering at the hands of my assistant.”

“Fuck you,” you slur. It comes out like “Fugyh _.”_

Her next hit scatters black sparks across your vision, and you slump into them.

* * *

Crowley cracks peanuts with all the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry. Down the bar, Rowena sips a nausea-green cocktail, eyes on the news like Crowley. Chuck’s slumped in a corner booth, owning a thousand-yard stare. Sam’s fiddling with his phone, blinking between the news and Chuck. Cas stands guard near Sam, turning his gaze between the sun, the TV, and you.

And Dean. . . he’s wherever Amara is. Scared out of his mind with a soul bomb pulsing in his chest. Alone. If he hasn’t bitten it by now, he probably will soon. No more crinkle-eyed glances in the rear-view mirror, no more warm rush of surprise at how _close_ he always sits on the couch when a Netflix marathon goes down. No more sleepy, slurry 3AM conversations leaning over the kitchen island, talking the nightmares away.

No more catching the soft, tender touches between him and Cas. Strong hands curled into jackets, fingertips catching at fingertips. Brief kisses. That makeout you walked in on once, where Cas was pulling Dean into a slow roll of hips, hands hidden beneath shirts, beneath jeans, breathless sounds as the couch cushions creaked. Or—fuck, the Door Incident, that time when. . .

Okay. Okay, you gotta get the flip outta this dim, depressing bar.

It’s cold and clammy outside, patches of sidewalk still dark from the recent rain. You lean back against the wall beneath an awning and pull in deep, slow breaths. The breeze slips its cool fingers around your collar, through your hair. The sun burns and doesn’t burn. Like, damn, you shouldn’t be able to see sunspots, right? That’s not normal. Somehow it’s still less depressing than inside the bar.

Beside you, the door whispers open and then Cas is there, drawing up to your side, brows tilted in a worried furrow.

You want to lean into him. You want to bury beneath his coats and nose along his collarbone. You want to feel enough of him to forget everything else. Instead you study the wet silver grille of the Impala, and manage a croaky, “I’m sorry.” When he tilts his head just a bit, you add, “About Dean.”

“You don’t need to offer me condolences.” He leans against the wall beside you. Close. When you glance over, his brows are still at that desperately sad angle. “Not when I can feel your grief running deep as my own.”

You brush at your eyes. Damn it, you were gonna be cool about so _much._ “You can feel that, huh.”

“And see it.”

For a few moments the two of you just stare into the distance. More clouds roll in. You sniffle. “Hey, uh.” Your voice scapes again. “Not sure if I should ask, but. . . back in the graveyard. What’d Dean say to you, when you looked at me all sudden?”

For a moment he doesn’t speak. Then he blinks at the ground. “I need a little time before I can answer that.”

“Yeah. Sure. Is it—is it bad?”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “No.”

For the first time in a few days, your heart gives a hopeful, heated little twist. “Good.”

You’re wondering what you did to deserve the gorgeous view of the stray curl hanging over his forehead when it occurs to you that he’s. . . well. He’s out here with you. “Hey. Shouldn’t you. . .” You wave uselessly. “Don’t you wanna talk to Chuck?”

He looks out over the parking lot, squinting a little. “I thought I did.” The pause is so long you think he’s done, but he starts up again: “Then I saw him, and I realized. . . no excuse of his could assuage my anger for what he did to me. To _all_ of us. Lucifer, he—he needed that vindication. It drove his every moment. But he didn’t have anything else.” Cas lets that hang, the implication floating between you. “So. . . no. I don’t need to talk to Chuck. And besides that, I. . . I don’t know him anymore. If I ever did.” His gaze returns to yours, fond. “I know you.”

Your lower lip’s trembling. “Oh,” you whisper.

“If the world’s about to end, I’d rather be at your side.” He gives you a sideways glance. “Making use of free will while I can.”

The urge to burrow the fuck into his coat rises up so fast that your arms twitch. “But your wings. What if he. . .”

Cas smiles that quiet little half-smile again. “And here I thought you enjoyed all those road trips together.”

Your own laugh startles you, fighting over sniffles. “I do.”

“Then I don’t need wings,” he says, easy.

The look in his eyes—it’s so much deeper than that, but he knows you get it. All the reasons none of you have time to articulate. “Cas?”

“Yes.”

“I’d rather be at your side, too.”

He studies you a moment more, and then he reaches out, tentative, until his fingertips brush yours. Heat curls through you, a whole adrenaline-soaked wash of it, and he threads your fingers together. You tighten your grip, and he uses that leverage to tug you flush against his side.

Your heart drums and drums. He strokes his thumb over your knuckles, a slow, steady back-and-forth as you both watch, silent. Leaving a hundred things unsaid, a hundred pleas that you carefully keep from turning into prayers.

His thumb pauses in a dip between your knuckles. “I can stop.”

You wet your lips. “Please don’t.”

His eyes flicker up to yours, ridiculously blue. He shifts, and pulls your hand and his into the warmth of his coat pocket, where he continues stroking over your knuckles.

You lean into his side and close your eyes. “I’m glad you’re with me,” you whisper, wondering if he’ll catch the passing slip of a reference.

“Here at the end of all things,” he murmurs.

You turn your face toward his shoulder, away from the dying sun, and hide your blurry eyes in his coat.

* * *

This time it’s the silence, not the screaming, that pulls you out of a bruised, foggy unconsciousness. You flinch in your chains and pain sears through your shoulders and back like wildfire. Gasping, you struggle to get your feet solidly beneath you. Cuts sting across your cheekbone. Dried blood pulls on your chin and cheeks as you stretch your jaw. Your temple throbs hard. Your ribs are bruised or broken or both.  

 _Okay, Cas_ , you think, fury at Toni warring with fear. _We’re not doing so hot, here_.

You squint at the TV monitor across from you. On the screen, Sam is—

Curled on the floor, in a pool of blood.

You blink wide, all thoughts of pain forgotten with the rush numb disbelief. “Sam?” It’s a rasp, a broken whimper.

Onscreen, Toni steps into frame, cautious and hesitant. So she didn’t do it. She’s _surprised_.

“No.” You’d scream for Sam if you had the air. “ _No_ —”

Sam launches to his feet.

He grabs Toni and _shoves_ her backward, walking her up against a wall beneath the camera so you can’t see them. You can hear him, though, every word. There’s a thud as she drops, and then he looks at the camera. “On my way to you,” he rasps, quick and warm. Then he hobbles for the stairs.

Oh, fuck yes.

But also oh fuck _no_ , if Sam frees you, you are in no condition to fight your way out, or run, or _anything_. Whatever, maybe adrenaline will carry you through. Maybe Toni left a weapons cache in the kitchen. You open your mouth to call for Sam, direct him toward you, and then fuck, _shit_ , Toni’s on him with a fucking—what is that, is that a _cattle prod_ —

There’s a brief scrabble, shouting, shoving, her heel smashed into his face. And just like that, it’s over. Sam slumps at the bottom of the stairs, gasping just as bad as you are, just as fucked up. There’s a bandage on his foot, opposite the leg Toni shot, so maybe he wouldn’t have gotten far, either. He leans his head against the rail, and light gleams off sweat and tear tracks and blood.

Your eyes blur again, hot with tears of your own. When the sob comes, it hurts so bad, it just pulls you back under.

* * *

The bunker is creepy-quiet. Maybe that should’ve tipped you off, but for now, it makes sense. Last time you were here, there was a whole cast of questionable characters. Plus Dean.

Fuck. Your bag drags at one shoulder; all you want is to bash into your room, crash down on the bed, and cry until you’re wrung out. Or until you give up and text or pray for Cas, and hope against selfish hope that maybe he’ll sit at the side of your bed. Maybe he’ll give you a hint of his own feelings, the flashes of desperation you saw back in the graveyard. You lost your friend, but Cas lost his friend and lover both. Maybe he wants the company. Maybe he’ll hold your hand again. Hell, it’s so late—maybe he’ll stay.

Maybe he needs you, too.

Each footstep down into the war room feels loud as thunder. Cas’ voice rumbles along with it, offering careful support to Sam, who’s been quiet, but okay. _They’ve done this before_ , you think, gulping back the immanent threat of tears. _More than anyone_.

“Hello, hello.”

You nearly stumble into Cas in surprise. There’s a woman standing on the steps to the library, prim and smiling, and she slaps her blood-red palm to a blood-red sigil.

White light bursts from the sigil and swamps the room, blinding, _noisy_ , and when it fades as fast as it flared, Cas is gone.

Panic bolts through you. Where do those sigils send him if his wings are clipped? _How does he get back?_

Sam reaches for his gun and you have a hand on yours when the woman says, “Don’t.”

She’s already pointing her pistol at both of you.

Great. _Great_.

“Toni Bevell,” she says. Her British accent is polished and proper as her skinny-heeled pumps. “Men of Letters. London Chapterhouse.”

The fuck?

She lists every baddie you’ve all fought in the last few years, something about “old men.” You can barely listen; you’re looking for signs of any other surprise visitors. And now that you get a look at the sigil she used to banish Cas, it’s a simplistic farce of the real thing. Maybe he didn’t get blasted to the edge of the universe. Maybe he’s close enough that he can get back in a few days. _Days_. God.

Her voice snaps you back to the present: “Where’s Dean?”

Grief swoops your stomach as you and Sam trade glances. “Dead,” says Sam.

“Saved the world,” you add, voice scraping. “Again.”

Sam’s throat bobs. “Look, lady, I don’t know who the hell you are.” He moves forward one cautious step. “Or what the hell you—”

She snaps her gun up, stance renewed. “Stop.”

 _Shit_.

“Put the gun down.” Sam steps forward again, slow. You stay put; he’s got way more conflict resolution experience. He’s got this.

“I said. _Stop_.” Her gun doesn’t move.

Sam’s hands lift, placating. “You and I both know you’re not gonna pull that trigger.”

You breathe easier, thinking, _Good, because I wasn’t sure—_

She fires.

For one half-second, in the _clinkalink_ sound of the shell casing hitting the floor, you’re not sure if you got hit. Then Sam buckles. Blood darkens his jeans just above his left knee, and he gasps, shouts. You’re at his side in an instant, hands in his jacket, around his arm. Your ears ring. “Sam!”

“Stand back from him.” Her voice is clipped, the gun still up. “Stand back or you’re next.”

You lurch away from Sam, so furious you could spit. He groans through his teeth, now flat on his ass, hands gripping just above the bullet wound. Blood’s soaking his jeans around the sides of his thigh now, gleaming wetly.

“What the fuck is this.” Your voice shakes. “Men of Letters, huh? Aren’t we on the same team?”

“Maybe if disaster didn’t cling to your every step. But it does.” Her eyes flick just past you, and she nods.

 _Shitshitshit somebody else is_ —

And the lights go out.

*

*

*

Dean’s ten feet outside the vet’s office, gravel crunching underfoot, when sunlight catches in the gouges on his palms and it occurs to him that he’s bleeding. Right, so maybe he’ll take a sec to consider his options next time he wants to shatter a phone with his bare hands. Dazed, he blinks at the red scratches, then into the tidy parking lot. Into the sun that isn’t dying.

They have his brother. They have _her_.

Cas is there, reaching for his scraped hands. He’d barely made a sound on the gravel.

Dean’s voice hitches: “Leave ‘em.”

Cas gives him a _look_. “Stop punishing yourself for things that aren’t your fault.” He smooths his thumbs across Dean’s palms, a sharp salt-sting before the red fades away. “We’ll get them back. Until then. . . they’re strong. They can take whatever she dishes out.”

“They shouldn’t have to.” Dean shoves his hands his pockets. “I—I shoulda been there.”

“Then you’d be just as bad off. And I’d have to find you on my own.” Cas isn’t having any of Dean’s wallowing, but he’s still tender about it. “We have a number. We can trace it to wherever that woman’s keeping them. They’re still alive—so she still needs them. They must know that, too.”

Dean grits his teeth. “You wanna tell me how you’re so damn calm about this?”

Cas doesn’t rise to the half-bait it is. He knows Dean better than that, which Dean finds terrifying, and kind of awesome. “Both of us panicking won’t help anyone,” Cas murmurs. “And if I Iet myself dwell on it, I. . . I might do something drastic.”

“Yeah, like what.”

Cas’ brows quirk, considering. “Anything to distract myself. Scorch the earth. Tear down trees.”

So he _is_ freaking out. Somehow that’s a relief. “Couldn’t blame you there.”

Cas pulls Dean’s hand free and twines their fingers together, angled so that if Mary returned suddenly, they could separate without suspicion. “I’d put them back together.”

“I know you would.” Dean wills himself to focus through the fear, through how much this _hurts_ , knowing he can’t help. He still has no idea whether the blood on the bunker floor was hers or Sam’s. He mutters, “We shoulda told her.” And he means—

He means everything. How badly they want her. Not just in the sack, which is—hell yes. But all the other crap, too. All the little things he forgets about until they happen again. Her sixth sense about the times he craves quiet company. The way she hides her smile at his shitty jokes. Those middle-of-the-night conferences over the kitchen island when their nightmares keep them up, the way they can read each other’s faces across a room. How close she and Cas are, the way he glows at Dean in the rearview mirror when she falls asleep on his shoulder in the back seat.

Cas gets it. He always does. “We _will_ tell her.” He’s quietly fierce. “We’ll tell her everything when we see them again.”

From inside the vet’s office, Mary sounds like she’s wrapping up the last of her sweep.

Dean steps closer, presses a kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth. Apology, gratitude—he doesn’t know which he wants to mean more. He hovers there just long enough to add, “Then let’s go get ‘em.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toni’s upgraded her torment to creepy mind hoodoo that reveals the deets of your two-man (fine, one man, one angel) crush. So when she nabs a very-much-alive Dean mid-rescue, her threats become all about telling Dean the truth about your feelings. Why does that scare you more than anything she’s threatened you with? And why do Dean and Cas keep looking at you like they look at one another?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments! Rating and tags have been updated. Part 3 coming on January 21!

The bunker kitchen smells like coffee, just as delightful as the looks Dean and Cas wear from their side-by-side seats at the table. Dean—boxer briefs, t-shirt, robe—lifts his mug in greeting. His hair’s mussed. And god, with that dopey grin, he’s thinking _in detail_ about last night.

“Morning.” His voice is raw. “Cas owes me five dollars.”

You snort as you pour coffee. “The hell for?”

“We bet on whether you’d be up before ten,” says Cas. He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and a faded Metallica tee you’ve seen on Dean. “I took after, he took before.”

Now at the end of the table, full mug in hand, you tap the button on Dean’s phone. “Nine fifty-five. So close, Cas.”

“Don’t rub it in,” he mutters. “I thought we wore you out enough for eleven, at least.”

Dean pulls you down into his lap, _hell yes_ , and you settle across his solid thighs, draping your free arm over his broad shoulders. “Hey,” he says. “We been thinking. Who’s that hunter you were working with last year? In the uh, the southeast?”

Hunh. That’s a swerve.

You were a hundred percent certain he was about turn that almost-dirty talk dial up to 11. “Nobody?”

He purses his lips. “Maybe it was the northeast.”

“There’s a few of ‘em up there. Why?”

“We were talking about making a database,” says Cas, smoothing a warm hand over your knee. “Might be useful, if we ever need help.”

You blink at him. Dean’s looking at you expectantly.

Something’s wrong. Well, not wrong. _Off_.

“Not a bad idea.” Your head’s pounding. _Figure this out._ “Yeah, there was that rugaru case. Up in. . . crap. Where was that?”

There was no rugaru case, up in anywhere. You think: _Albany_.

“New York,” Dean says. “Albany, right?”

Welp, this was fun while it lasted. “Yeah, I didn’t work any case in Albany last year.” Your muscles lock up tense. “So who the hell are you, and how do I get out of this nightmare?”

Dean smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

You shove out of his lap, and by the time you turn back, they’re both gone. In their place: Toni Bevell.

“You have to admit,” she says. “Even without your friends’ names, I’ve picked up some valuable information.”

Fury roars through you. You grab your coffee mug and toss the scalding contents all over her; while she screams you smash it against the heavy edge of the table and lunge at her with the jagged porcelain—

—and jerk against your own handcuffs, hanging aching and helpless in the whitewashed back room of this pastoral hell. Toni’s sitting across from you, smirking. “Of all the scenarios I guessed, it was never _two_ of them.”

Shit. Shitting, shitty _shit_. So she really was there. Everything hurts, and there’s a pinching spot in your neck, and your legs are wobbling, and she knows your feelings, and for one fucking minute, you actually believed Dean and Cas wanted you.

That Dean was still alive.

You close your eyes so you don’t have to look at her when tears go tracking warm down your face. “You’ve held onto that for a long time, haven’t you,” she says, almost pityingly. “Convinced yourself that maybe they’d eventually catch on and go for it.”

She wants you to protest. She wants you to confirm it, or fight her. To make it stop by giving her names. You keep your mouth shut and sniffle.

She sighs. There’s the sound of her pen capping. Her chair creaks when she stands. “Perhaps Sam will be easier to break this way. He’s been through a lot more, after all.”

“Oh, fuck you.” It’s a strangled sob.

“Give me names and locations,” she says. “I don’t have to do this.”

You open your eyes, hoping you look half as wild as you feel. “ _Fuck_. _You_.”

“Hm,” she says. She turns on her heel, and shuts the door behind her.

In moments she appears on the black and white monitor, filling a syringe. Sam’s unconscious, head hanging, but he flinches when she jams the needle into the side of his neck.

So that's why your own neck has that stinging spot. She’s giving Sam the same hallucinogenic cocktail that put you in the dreamland version of the bunker kitchen.

You take deep breaths, slow in and out, trying to think of anything but your aching back and shoulders, your smarting legs, how much longer you might be here.

Man, if nothing else, Crowley or Rowena will probably need a favor soon. Maybe they'll come looking?

Sam shrugs out of the weird-ass dream state quicker than you expect. The audio’s kind of muffled, but he’s defiant as hell, still refusing to give up anything Toni asks. So she pulls a knife off her tray of glinting goodies, and sends a cold look at the camera.

Shit.

He doesn’t scream near as loudly as he did earlier. But his shirt darkens so _fast_ , a shining path down beneath his collarbone as Toni works. She slices his face, too, and shadows streak down his jaw.

Yeah, fuck this. You may not have a way out, but you don’t have to let her torture you while she isn’t even there. Gritting your teeth, you eye the distance from you to the screen, and adjust your grip on the manacles. The muscles in your shoulders and arms pull sharply, pain flaring to life so fast and deep that you gasp. “Come on,” you pant. “You can do this.”

You tighten your grip and _pull_ , lifting yourself, drawing your knees up. With a yell of pain, you slam your heels into the monitor. The whole thing jolts backward and lurches off the table, shattering on the ground.

Fuck _yes_. You slump with relief, gulping air as your heart pounds hard enough to feel it in your throat. Every part of your body feels hot with protest, but at least you don’t have to look at what Toni’s doing to Sam.

It’s no surprise that sharp, quick footsteps _clip-clip-clip_ your way in just moments. It’s Toni, of course, her eyes cold and narrow as she surveys the scene. “Hm.” Her fingertips are bloody. “Let’s try something else, shall we.”

* * *

You hit your knees at the bottom of the basement steps. Sam’s right in front of you, shining with sweat. Cuts gleam darkly on his cheek and through his sliced shirt. And god, he’s so _tired_. He’s swaying in his seat, hair hanging limply in his face as he stares at you, wide-eyed. He breathes your name, stunned.

For one glorious moment, relief outweighs fear. You manage a hoarse, “Miss me?” before Toni drags you to your feet and shoves you to the left, where there’s a metal support beam stretching from floor to ceiling. You slump against it. Apparently this was her plan, because seconds later, she splits your cuffs then re-locks them behind your back, around the pole.

At least you get way more slack this time.

She steps back with a breezy sigh. Like she’s just finished rearranging a picture wall, or some other bourgie bullshit. “All right.” She heads over to a whole table full of nasty metal equipment, gleaming in the light from the clouded glass window bricks. “Let’s see what we have.”

While her back’s turned, Sam looks at you, assessing. You try to smile, buoyed by his concern, glad you decided to stay on your feet—then Toni turns around to face Sam, and she’s holding a blowtorch. “Why don’t we bring this back,” she says, and clicks it on.

Sam’s entire body flinches, confirming your suspicion: that’s what the woman onscreen before was using to torture him. This time you can smell the burning propane, hear the blue flame devouring the air as it reaches toward Sam.

You yank against your handcuffs, clanging around the metal post as fresh waves of pain roll over you. “ _No_.”

Toni lifts a brow in your direction. “Then tell me what I want to hear.”

“Don’t.” Sam may look like hell, but his eyes are lucid and they’re holding yours. “Don’t do it. It’s okay. I can take it.” He nods once, a shaky little dip. Silent forgiveness.

God damn it. He and Cas are all you have left. And Dean—he’s gone, but he’d do anything to protect Sam.

Toni moves in. Sam inches away, chain links jangling, panic in his eyes as tears sting yours.

Fucking— _fuck_.  

“Stop,” you snap. Piss and hell. “I’ll do it, all right? I’ll give you the names. Just leave him alone.”

Toni steps back, and trades the blowtorch for her notebook.

You make up the names. Every one of them, and you even invent fake last-known locations. You give her six imaginary hunters and then call it quits.

Toni frowns at you. “That’s it? Where are the others?”

“Dead,” you snap. That’s not untrue. You’ve lost friends to this business.

“Very well.” She stands. “Was that so hard?”

No amount of _fuck you_ s could convey how deeply you feel ‘em. “Thought you were gonna let us go.”

“Don’t be silly.” She’s heading for the stairs. “I have to confirm they actually exist first. That may take awhile, so try not to go anywhere.”

The heavy basement door slams shut. Locks clank into place. Then it’s just silence except for you and Sam panting.

You ease to the floor with the post at your back, all your muscles _furious_ at you for standing so long. You kick your aching legs out, tipping your head back against the post. “Sam?”

His head’s hanging like it’s too heavy to hold up. “You didn't have to do that.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t reply, still staring at the floor.

Oh, right. “They were fakes, man.” You make sure your voice is low enough that Toni’s creepy recording equipment won’t pick it up.

There’s a shadow of a smile. “You gave us some time.”

“Yep.” Your breathing’s returning to normal. If you sit just _so_ , your muscle aches are only background noise. “Catch me up on what you know.”

He talks softly for the same reason you did, but it all leads to the same place: you guys are fucked. Prayers are a one-way call, there’s nothing around to break you out of your cuffs, and both of you are too fucked up to attempt a serious escape. At least you got to keep your shoes; he's barefoot, his boots nowhere in sight.

After awhile, there’s nothing to do but wait. You want to keep plotting, want to try _anything_ , but exhaustion is catching up with you, dragging heavily on your limbs and eyelids. So you get yourself mostly flat on the ground—which is on your side, curled up with your hands still behind you—and close your eyes. A couple of deep breaths, a couple of prayers to Cas, and the grim, dim, drafty basement fades away as sleep swallows you up.

* * *

Ah, man. Fucking figures. First real sleep you get in days, and your dream dumps you in the bunker hallway, at the corner by Dean’s closed bedroom door.

Which is jolting in its frame. _Crick-CREAK-crick_ against the hinges, thumping in the quarter-inch of slack.  

It’s the Door Incident.

This _has_ to be Toni’s work, throwing this actual memory at you. After it happened IRL, sure, you’d dreamed about it once or twice. But why else would you have it _now_ , if not for her?

You can hear voices on the other side. Cas’ dark groans, Dean’s ragged breathing. _Unf_.

Well. It’s just a dream, and Toni hasn’t shown up yet. You take a step closer. And closer. You can catch words here and there now, like you did that day—Cas’ growl (“ _Louder.”)_ , a fragment of Dean’s response (“— _hear us_ —”), and heat gathers in your groin so quickly that you stifle a whimper.

Fuck it, _fuck it_ —you step closer, letting arousal twist sparkling-hot through your body at the raw sounds of skin on skin, the brutal cadence of their breathing. At the bottom of the grate, you can see the tanned length of Cas’ leg, facing the door, in motion; he’s holding Dean up to fuck him. You lay a hand flat beneath the silver-plated number, just to feel how hard they’re caught up in each other.

This fricking close. Rattling against your palm. That’s all you’ll ever get, now.

Someone clears their throat behind you.

You whip around with a gasp, and—

It’s Cas. It’s _Cas_ , and he’s wearing such a perfect expression of mild confusion that it’s gotta be Toni. Cas, he—he’d be furious, _flustered_ , if he knew about this.

Damn it.

“Took you long enough,” you snap, and put your dukes up. “No coffee mug this time, so I guess we gotta do this the old-fashioned way.”

You rush him.

The hall flips sideways; your back thumps into the blue-gray tiles and you gasp as Toni-wearing-Cas crowds into your space, big hands locked tight around your biceps to pin you to the wall.

You’re practically nose-to-nose. Those blue irises are—god, she’s gotta be drawing directly from your memories. The tired lines beneath his eyes, the softness of his mouth, the crooked angle of the knot of his tie, it’s all there. “This isn’t a hallucination,” he says urgently. “It’s _me_. And I may not have much time.”

Your mouth has gone dry. The length of his body is so close that yours aches for the warmth. Your arms throb in his grip. You croak, “Cas?”

His face softens; his hands relax. “I’ve been trying to reach you in your sleep, but you haven’t been sleeping much. Unconsciousness, it—it’s not the same. But it is me.”

You want to believe him so _much_. But you’ve been burned before. You lick your lips, and tell yourself he doesn’t watch the motion. “Prove it.”

Muscles twitch in his jaw. He looks down, away—thinking. Thankfully the noises behind the door have quieted, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He releases your arms, steps back, and locks his determined eyes on yours.

They go blazing-bright a second later. The air crackles like static, a high-pitched tone searing through it, and Cas _glows_ , head to foot and more. In the bright space behind him, black shadows slowly climb the wall, _gigantic_ , spreading, reaching, and it’s. . . oh, fuck, it’s _wings_.

But they’re broken. Or not broken, they’re just—missing huge parts of themselves. Feathers hang askew from the shadow of bone, ragged and run down. One dark feather drifts away even as you watch.

They’re stunning, even torn up. So gorgeous you can barely breathe as you drink in the sight of them.

The glow fades, and it’s just Cas with his eyes back to normal, only now he can barely look at you. He’s _embarrassed_.

Yeah. Yeah, this is Cas, all right.

You barely manage the words. “You’re ashamed of them?”

“They’re. . . they used to be beautiful.” He gulps. “Now they’re. . .”

“Still beautiful,” you insist, finding your voice. “Definitely more badass. Besides.” You catch his eye for this one. “Road trips, right?”

The smile’s just starting on his face when there’s another groan from behind the door. One last big rattle.

Jesus. Your face goes blazing-hot. “Um. I’m just gonna go melt through the floor and never come back.”  

“No, you aren’t.” His smile is so soft. “I won’t let you.”

You barrel into his open arms.

He actually lifts you off the ground, arms tight around you, his stubble scraping the side of your face as you cling. _God_ , he smells good. Familiar. “You heard my prayers,” you whisper.

“Every word.” He sets you down, shifts back, and lifts a hand and fits it to your cheek, so tender your heart flutters. “We’ve been working fast as we can to find you and Sam.”

“Awesome.” _Damn_ , you needed this. You practically nuzzle into his hand. He’s so worried for you, beautiful in his stark concern. Barely ten feet away on the other side of a door, the dream version of him is probably lowering Dean to the floor, both of them shaky and tender and stark friggin’ naked. “I’m. Crap.” You step back out of his grip, so embarrassed you think you actually might croak on the spot. “I’m sorry. About this.”

To your surprise, he smiles. He says, “You can’t help what you dream. Or overhear.”

Shit, and he _saw you_ up against that door with your hand on it, desperate to feel them even a little. To imagine you could be between them. With them.

“Yeah.” You gulp. “So you’re. . .”

He snaps out of an apparent trance. “Close. More than close. We’re just trying to figure out how to break the warding around the place. If you have any ideas. . .”

Shit. “Didn’t even know it was warded at all.”

“Heavily. Against everything. But we’re working on it.”

Something clicks, and you look up at him. “‘We’? You call up Jody, or something?”

His face breaks into the most radiant, relieved smile. “No,” he says, “no, I meant to tell you first thing—”

Icy water drenches you from head to foot, and you jerk awake.  

Gasping, spluttering, you struggle to sit up. Toni’s lowering a metal bucket. “Fakes,” she says. “All of them. Every last one.”

You’re trying to look unfazed, but it’s fucking difficult when you’re shivering-cold and your shoulders hurt this bad. Your neck has a crick in it. “Maybe they gave _me_ fake names.”

She stares, unimpressed.

“Come on,” you snap. Your teeth chatter against the drafty air, and strands of wet hair hang in your face. “They’re hunters. Fake names are part of the job.”

“She’s right,” Sam says quickly, still muzzy from his own pain. “Maybe they do things differently in London, but—”

Toni hurls the bucket to the concrete, where it clangs so loudly that even Sam jumps. “You’ve just bought yourself more scars,” she says, turning to her tray of sharp metal knick-knacks. “I hope it was worth it.”

She doesn’t give you nearly as much as Sam got, but _fuck_ , it’s the kind of pain that creeps up on you, welling up with the blood as she draws sharp lines down your shoulder, down your jaw, the smell of blood mingling with the smell of water. Sam tries to keep your attention, but _wow_ , it’s tough, especially when she pauses long enough to deck him in the jaw.

And then it stops. In your haze you realize she’s distracted, and your hearing retroactively picks up on the storm doors rattling at the back of the basement.

A silhouette retreats, just visible through the spaces between the slats, and then white light flares up, streaking through the gaps.

Toni sighs. Her knife hits the table. “Just a mo,” she says, and she’s gone.

Sam says your name, low and urgent, pulling against his cuffs. “Talk to me.”

The cuts aren’t even very deep. But you’re still shivering from the water and fear. “I’m okay. Just. . .” You thunk your head back against the post, willing yourself to breathe deeply focus on hope. “Before she woke me up, Cas found me in my dream. Says they’re close. Just trying to bust the warding.”

Sam blinks at you, eyes wide and round. “‘They’?”

“Didn’t have time to ask.” Another deep breath. Holding it. Letting it go. “But I swear, if that shit’s not real, I—”

The door at the top of the stairs whines open. You can’t see Toni, but Sam must, because looks up and spits, “Screw yourself.”

She doesn’t reply, but somebody stumbles, taking heavy, unsteady steps down into the basement.

That isn’t Toni.

You watch Sam’s face change into slow, dumb shock. He says, “Dean?”

_What?_

You lurch to your feet, unsteady, chains rattling up the post behind you. A familiar bootheel comes into view, and—

Oh, Christ. Holy shit and a half.

It _is_ Dean.

He looks—oh, hell, he looks good, even though he’s moving like he’s hurt, his hands cuffed in front of him. The warding Cas mentioned—maybe that got him?

He sees Sam first, but then those green eyes flicker over to you. He drags his gaze up your body, pausing where blood stains your clothes, your skin, and then he’s searching your eyes, his own so damn worried that he nearly loses his footing on the last step.

Toni’s talking, more threats about how she’s going to carve Dean up in front of you and Sam, but you barely hear her.

 _Dean’s alive_.

That’s what Cas was gonna tell you. That’s his “we.”

Toni loops Dean’s handcuffs through an iron ring in the ceiling—almost like what you got earlier—and turns to look at you, smirking. “Anything I do to him would be doubly tragic for you, wouldn’t it.”

Wow, fuck this. You give her your best glare, but you probably just look like a soaked cat. “No more than usual.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” She moves toward the table and selects that set of brass knuckles, the ones with the sigils, and steps closer to Dean. “Would you like to tell him why? Or shall I do it?”

Beside her, Dean’s gaze returns to yours, and he gives a half-shake of his head, brows angled in question. Warmth blooms in your chest; he may as well have spoken aloud: _What’s she talking about_?

You roll your eyes: _No fricking idea_. Except you’re fighting back a completely new kind of fear. She’ll tell Dean what she saw in that bunker kitchen dream. She’ll tell him everything about how desperately you wanted— _want_ , he’s alive—him and Cas both. “Knock yourself out,” you tell her, but your hands keep on shaking behind you.

She smiles like she knows she’s got you. “You can give me more names— _real_ names—or I’ll tell him the truth.”

Dean’s still looking at you, but like he’s thinking it over: _Am I supposed to know what this means_?

She waggles her fingers in the knuckledusters, then glances at Sam. “Alternatively, you could give me the passcodes, Sam.”

You must’ve missed this line of questioning, but Sam stays silent, glaring.

Toni sighs. Then she swivels and smashes Dean across the face.

He reels in the cuffs with a short, deep grunt of pain. Upright again, he spits, and a red streak hits the floor. Toni just smirks at you. “Change your mind?”

“Fuck you.” Your legs are shaking like they’re gonna give out soon; you need to _sit_.

She looks at Dean, moving back to her arsenal of silver. “Anything to add?”

“Nah,” says Dean. Blood drips from his twisted grin. “Just came by for some tea and a beating.”

This fuckin’ guy.

“Really,” says Toni. She’s traded the knuckledusters for a teacup. And she dives into another speech, more creepy know-it-all shit, this time about Benny.

Dean stares at her, stares at you ( _how much does this chick know?)_ and is just turning back to her when she decks him in the face again. Before he can recover, she sinks a fist into his side. Dean’s knees nearly buckle before he manages to catch himself, hanging heavy in his cuffs, breathing harsh as more blood drips from his mouth. She’s still watching you when she straightens, panting.

Cold fury ices your heart; anger is the only thing keeping you standing at this point. Sam’s struggling in his seat, and from the dark bruises around his wrists, you know it’s gotta hurt.

“All this could end,” Toni says, holding your gaze. “I will walk away from him _right now_ if you give me those names.” Her chin dips. “This is your last chance before I tell him.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. You just got Dean back, but this crap—she’s about to take him away forever.

Sam says, “The hell are you talking about?”

Toni’s smile deepens. “You recall that little dream sequence I treated you to, Sam.” It isn’t a question. “If the dose works properly, it’s meant to discover the object of your desires so that I can mask myself as them, and continue the interrogation. Absolute trust, an eagerness to please. . . it’s effective, to say the least. On Sam, it wasn’t quite as effective as I hoped.” Her eyes flick back to you. “But for _you_ , it worked exactly as intended."

Sam’s staring at the floor, but you can feel Dean watching you, trying to catch your eye. You grit your teeth. Toni’s practically gleeful. “Can you guess who was in her dream? The object of her desire?” She leans close to Dean, but her gaze is on you, alight with cruelty. “Or should I say, _objects_?”

Dean rolls his eyes. Then he hooks his ankle in the back of her knee and _yanks_.

Toni topples over so fast, one of her shoes goes flying. And Dean—bloodied, sweating, hurting—looks up at you and _winks_.

You blink wide in shock, unsure whether to laugh or to sink through the floor with embarrassment. Also relief, because the easy way he shook off her theatrics. . . oh, thank fuck.

Soon as she gets to her feet, she slugs Dean hard across the face. For a second, he really does just hang there, heaving for breath, his mouth red and the skin split on his cheek. She jams her foot back into her thrown shoe.

_Bleeplableepbeep._

Toni looks back to her tray of metal goodies, where her phone’s ringing.

_Bleeplableepbeep._

Furious, she snatches it up, slipping the brass knuckles off, and heads for the stairs. “Excuse me,” she says, like this is a fancy dinner function, and her shoes tap delicately on the steps on the way up. The door rattles in its hinges when she slams it.

All three of you let out huge breaths.

Sam’s facing Dean now, too. “Dean?”

He’s swaying in those chains, but that twisty, tired, _I-probably-still-got-this_ smile comes back. “Hey, guys.”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” you croak.

His weary eyes float up to yours and stay. “Not so sure that I’m not.”

Your wobbly legs finally have enough; you slump down against the post. Even that motion is agony on your shoulders. “ _Ah_.” You can feel Dean’s watching you, worried.

“So?” says Sam.

“What happened?” you add.

“I’ll tell you,” says Dean. “I’ll tell you everything. Just. . .” He finally tears his gaze from yours. “Really glad we found you guys.”

That question of _we_ floats back up. “Cas with you?”

“Yeah.” There’s that smile again. “Yeah, he’s—” The smile collapses and he coughs into the crook of his arm. “The warding’s still pretty intense. We were—”

The door at the top of the stairs wrenches back open, and Dean briefly ducks his face into his shoulder with a quiet, “Oh, god.” Okay, if _Dean’s_ freaking out. . .

“Now,” Toni says brightly, tapping back down the stairs. “Where were we?”

None of you reply. Back at the table, she picks up a thin, pointed metal rod that makes you fucking sweat. “How about this—allow me to recap. For Dean’s sake.” She whaps the thing across her palm like a Dickensian schoolteacher. “You live in the Men of Letters bunker. You’re awash in the world’s greatest collection of occult knowledge, and yet, you know ‘nothing.’”

“Right?” Dean sways in his cuffs, grinning like a total shit. “What a waste.” He coughs again, wetly.

Toni narrows her eyes. “It seems you apes have never read a single book.”

You turn your worsening worry into a prayer: _Cas? Shit’s about to break bad down here._

She heads for Dean, her eyes on you again. “So. Since you remain unwilling to cooperate, shall I say it outright? Or will you finally decide you _do_ know something of value?”

Shit. Is Cas close enough that more fake names would get you the time you need?

She turns to Dean, grabs him by the jaw, and holds up the pointy metal thing. “I promise you.” She’s still talking at you. “If you name more false friends, you’ll live to regret it. Dean, I’m not so sure.”

Sam’s wrenching against his cuffs, looking behind him to find a way out. Dean’s grim-eyed, holding damn still.

And then there’s someone on the steps. Her sneakers are silent, and she’s holding a lowered gun with both hands. As her face comes into view, recognition startles you into stillness. You _know_ her—but you have no idea who she is. How the frick—?

Whatever. She’s on your side. You keep your trap shut and watch.

Toni’s still speaking, a drawl that would be almost _bored_ if she wasn’t about to skewer Dean through his eyeball. The newcomer reaches the floor, levels her gun at Toni, and cocks it. She snaps, “Get away from my boys.”

_My boys?_

Oh, shit—you know her because she’s in a photo at base of Dean’s desk lamp. Hell, she’s in half the photos in the stack you leafed through once. The first time Dean was showing off his room in the bunker, and you got curious about the tin box on his desk. Honest to god, you can’t believe he actually opened the damn thing, let alone handed you those worn photos with this open, nervous look, half _please-like-this_ and half _please-like-me_.

It’s Mary fricking Winchester.

What in the salty fuck?

Sam’s jaw is hanging, his tired eyes wide. In a voice that breaks your heart in half, he manages, “Mom?”

Notably unsurprised: Dean. “Yeah,” he says to Sam with that lopsided grin, then he glances at you, brows lifting and lowering.

Mary moves forward, confident and pissed, every bit the hunter you know she was. _Is_. She swipes a ring of keys off the table of torture implements, and gestures to Toni’s metal spike. “Drop it.”

To your surprise, Toni does.

You hold your breath. Last time you had hope in a standoff, shit went sideways.

Mary’s still laser-focused on Toni. “Ground.”

Toni doesn’t move. Fear clouds your senses until you’re choking on it, remembering her on the step in the bunker, wondering what the fuck she’s got up her—

Mary clocks her on the head with the butt of the gun, and has the keys in Dean’s hands before Toni hits her knees. “ _That’s_ the ground.”

Oh, fuck yes.

Mary glances over at Sam, and for a second, her gaze goes just as longing as his.

And Toni surges up—

You yell out “ _Mary!_ ” just as Toni grabs the gun and Mary shoots in surprise, and then it’s fucking chaos.

Never in your life have you hurt this bad, trying to get your wrists free of the cuffs, trying to _break_ them, standing for leverage as Dean scrambles to unlock his own. Then Dean’s got the gun back, but Toni unleashes a blood spell shit that puts a choking Mary on her knees, and more panic churns up with the fear.

Your shoulders spark with agony as you twist around, looking for anything you might’ve missed in your initial sweep, _anything_ that can break you out.

Then there’s the sound of a punch; you wrench back around and Toni’s slumping over, away from Dean, totally knocked out as Mary drags in deep gulps of air.

You slump down again, knees first before you hit your ass, shaking and panting. “The fuck was that?”

“She’s using Chinese mind control trick.” Dean says, taking his own keys to unlock Sam’s cuffs. “Hard to do when you’re unconscious.” He glances over at you with a smile that’s practically another wink. “Turns out this ape did read a book or two.”

“Nerd,” you huff, weary with relief, and that’s when you notice the people on the stairs.

“Well played,” says the new guy, and glances back up the steps at—

“Cas.” It’s out of your mouth before you even think about it, trying to get a foot beneath you so you can get back up. His heartbreak-blue eyes, just finishing a worried sweep over Sam and Dean, find you and give you the same treatment. His mouth parts in horrified surprise at the state you’re in.

Nope, that leg’s not going anywhere. You slump back with a “‘Sup.”

“My apologies,” says Brit the second. “She—er, this wasn’t meant to happen. I take it you’d like some explanations.”

Dean straightens up as Sam flexes his wrists, wincing and groaning as he brings his shoulders forward. Dean’s got his death glare on, but he glances at Cas, who dips his chin with the barest nod. You realize you can read them, too, the _Is he safe?_ And the returned _For now._

The British guy spreads his hands. “Well?”

“Can it,” Dean says. “Give us a damn minute. Cas?”

“Right.” The British guy leans aside as Cas passes him to get to Sam first.

Cool with you. Sam definitely pulled the short end of the stick where Toni’s concerned.

Meanwhile, Dean’s striding over to you with the keys. “Hey,” he says, the one syllable wavering on an undercurrent of worry. He slips behind you. “Hey, kiddo, I gotcha.” His fingers brush gently against your bruised wrists, and when the cuffs unlatch, the _skritch_ sends a shudder up your spine. Then he's kneeling in front of you, so much worry shining in those green eyes that your heart skips.

“You should see the other guy,” you mutter. At his red-tinged smile, you shift, trying to get up once more—but your whole body sways.

“Whoa, whoa.” He reaches for you, and you tip into him. “Easy.”

“Swoon,” you mutter, tucking your face against his sweat-damp shirt. “Literally, dude, I don’t think I can hold myself up anymore.”

“That’s all right, c’mon.” He eases back to the floor with you, hitting one knee while you stay on your ass. “Cas is comin’, okay. He’s getting Sammy then he's getting you.”

Dizziness pounds in your temples. “Then you.”

“Yeah, kiddo, then me.”

“Dean.” You turn your face toward his shirt again; under the iron hint of blood, he smells like laundry, and hours in the Impala, and… _home._ You’d forgotten that combo, in the time between now and saying goodbye beside his mother’s grave. You whisper, “Your mom, huh.”

“Right?” His mouth is set against the crown of your head.

God, this is cozy. “She for real?”

“Yeah. It’s crazy, but—yeah. Tell you guys the whole thing once we get outta here.”

You close your eyes. “Dean?”

“Yeah.”

It comes out more of a whimper than you mean to: “I’m so glad you’re not dead.”

His chuckle turns into a stifled cough, but he fucking—oh, god, he practically nuzzles the top of your head. “Me, too,” he whispers.

At the sound of footsteps, you open your eyes to find Cas taking a knee beside Dean, worry and warmth swimming in his eyes. He says your name so gently. “Told you we were close,” he says, and touches fingers to your brow.

The hazy fog of pain and shock lift like a dissipating mist; your clothes dry and so does your hair. _Damn_ , everything feels so much better. You sit up from Dean, clear-headed, practically _normal_ for the first time in what feels like days. “Holy shit. Thanks, Cas.” You beam up at him, drawing your lower lip into your mouth, running your teeth over it just for the joy of missing a swollen split.

Dean and Cas watch you do it.

Which steals your breath as it is, but the way they guiltily, immediately glance away…

“You’re. You’re welcome.” Cas clears his throat. “I'll take another look when we get outside. There's some internal damage yet. The warding—what's left of it—is still affecting me.”

“It’s cool.” Your heart beats frantically as you shift up to a knee. Dean’s there, offering a hand; you take it just for the excuse to stay close, and he’s warm when he wraps around your palm and wrist to haul you easily up.  

“Right,” says the British guy, still standing at the bottom of the steps. “If our touching reunion’s finished, we can get down to brass tacks.”

Dean glares. Does he know he left his hand in the small of your back? “Pretty sure we’re not interested in whatever you have to say.”

“You might change your mind.” The guy draws himself up. “Name’s Mick. I hope you’ll trust me when I tell you this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter.

“No kidding,” Sam says, rubbing his wrists, now hovering on the edge of his seat with Mary at his side. He nods toward Toni, who’s starting to stir. “She laid into us for two days asking questions her ‘old men’ shoulda known just from tracking us for the last decade.”

Ain’t that the fucking truth. You glance back at Mick and add, “She said she’s been sent to ‘take us in. ”

Mick confirms it, at least you think he does, because Toni’s dragging herself up, looking right at you, Dean, and Cas. “Oh, good,” she says mildly. “The love triangle’s complete.”

Oh, no. Oh, no no no—your face goes hot so fast, your cheeks prickle. Mick sends Toni a baffled look, but Dean’s already talking to her: “Oh, for—will you _shut up_.” Are the tips of his ears red, or is it just the light? He glares at Mick. “So you sicced your attack dog on us to what, say hi?”  

Mick holds up his hands. “No argument—Lady Bevell went too far. I deeply apologize. She’ll face consequences in London.”

“I’ll tell you what.” Dean takes a half step forward, angling so it’s—fuck, it’s _protective_. He’s still glaring. “Why don’t you take a walk, and she can face consequences right here and now.”

Mick protests, and you take your eyes off Dean long enough to notice at Sam is looking right at you. His gaze flicks between you and his brother, then over to Cas. His brows come together only marginally. The barest trace of a question.

How the flip are you supposed to answer that?

Sam’s a smart dude. He’s figured it out by now. Or he will. Toni gave away enough that you may as well have commissioned a neon sign to spell it out.

You gulp and turn back to the conversation. Mick’s holding out a business card to Cas, who glances back at you and Dean before stepping forward. “My number,” Mick says. “Take your time, cool down, and just think it over. What’ve you got to lose, except your worst nightmares?”

Even Cas winces at that, but it’s Mary who gives Mick an exasperated _really?_ face. “That what you tell all the American hunters?”

Mick smirks. “Nah. You lot are the special ones.” For what seems like the first time, he finally glances at Toni. “Well. C’mon, then.”

You all watch them go, and then everybody breathes out at once. “Okay,” says Dean. He turns back to you. Then his brother. Then his mom. “Okay. Sam. Kiddo. There’s somebody I want you to meet.”

* * *

There’s actual sunlight on your face. You’re surrounded by the summertime hum of insects in tall grass, which rolls in waves under the passing weight of the breeze.

Instead of a white-paneled room where you had to watch your friend suffer in hi-def black and white, you get to watch Cas slip the bandage off Sam’s grotesquely burnt foot and pass a hand filled with gold light over the spot.

Sam shudders. He’s sitting sideways in the open backseat of the Impala while Cas is on one knee in front of him, knitting flesh back together. They’re both smiling, talking softly.

You’re sitting on the tailgate of Cas’ gnarly new ride, an old brown and cream F-150 that looks like it’ll leave a trail of bolts wherever it goes. When you sat, Dean handed you a bottle of water and then leaned against the rear quarter panel beside you. He’s been there in the few minutes since, hands in his pockets, just watching his brother and his boyfriend. Mary’s still inside, doing another sweep of the house for any more of your and Sam’s belongings. Like your wallet, and Sam’s. His phone.

The silence between you and Dean is driving you bonkers. Everything Toni said, and if Cas told him about that dream. . . Dean’s gotta know. He’s gotta know exactly how much it’s always hurt you to be this close to them and yet never close enough. You glance over at him.

He looks away, not fast enough to hide a wide-open expression of—hope? Relief? Your stomach swoops. If he’s grossed out by what he learned about you, he wouldn’t be sticking this close, would he?

“Man,” he says, quiet. There’s a little bit of pink in his cheeks, like—like he knows he got caught. “I can’t believe you’re sitting here in one piece.”

Your heart swells. “Speak for yourself. Two hours ago I still thought you were dead.” On the last word, your voice cracks. “It was a shitty few days.”

“We wanted to get to you sooner.” His tongue passes over his lips. “Believe me, we. . .”

“I know. I can imagine you guys freaking out pretty good.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Silence presses in. You twist and untwist the cap on the water bottle. “So. For the record. Does your mom know about you and Cas?”

He breathes out, a quick laugh. “Pretty sure she's guessed.” He squints out over the grassy horizon. “But. Not officially.”

Roadside gravel crackles; Cas is heading for you both.

Dean studies him. “What’s the story?”

“Sam’s fine. Still shaken, but he’ll manage.” Cas pauses in front of you, right at the end of your knees. “Your turn.” He lifts both his lovely tanned hands, but hesitates. It almost looks _shy_. “D’you mind if I—?”

You’re so thirsty for his touch, you’d take anything. And you know exactly how pathetic that is. “Go ahead.”

His fingers alight on your brow, but the other hand slips back, then into your hair, going directly for the distant hurt where you got bonked the other day. Goosebumps shiver from every fleeting point of contact; surely he sees— _feels_ —you shudder.

Beside you, Dean catches his breath.

Any last trace of hurt melts away from the back of your head, beneath your arms, between your ribs. The relentless hunger abates and the bruises fade completely from your wrists. Cas’ worried blue eyes hover so close, you can see the ring of navy blue around them. His lips look so _soft_ , pulling into a faint smile as he releases your face. Just like in that dream, you almost sway into the contact, chasing the warmth, the electricity in the bare brush of his fingertips.

“Thanks, Cas.” Your voice shakes.

“Of course.” He hasn’t moved away from you. He glances at Dean, and some sort of understanding passes between them.

Oh, god. They’re gonna bring it up. They’re gonna reject you together, right here and right now. Because the alternative—that nervous, clipped cadence from Dean that he saves for when he's truly out of his depth; noted staring expert Cas barely able to meet your eyes—that's. That’s rejection. It is. Right?

Dean says, husky, “Kid, I think we oughta—”

“Welp, the house is clear.” Mary thumps her hands down on the opposite quarter panel. “No luck on finding anybody’s wallets, but I rounded up some equipment we may be able to use.” She hefts the bag on her shoulder, then her eyes narrow thoughtfully at the three of you. “Everybody okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean smiles, easy, and moves to take the bag. “We’re good. Cas is just cleaning everybody up.”

“Neat.” She hands the bag over; Dean takes it and nearly drops it—heavier than he thought. She looks at you and Cas. “We ready to head out?”

You hop down from the tailgate, relieved when your body doesn’t protest. “Let’s bounce.”

* * *

You have a full belly and the full story by the time Dean pulls into the lot at the Celestial Motor Inn, a halfway decent-looking joint south of Kansas City. It’s U-shaped, the open end nestled up against a county road. The lot’s barely a quarter full. The blue and gold neon sign throws strands of light across the black finish of the Impala, already glowing in the colorless parking lot lamps overhead.

Dean goes off to grab rooms while Cas unlocks the trunk and people start digging out bags. You’re leaning against the fender, tracing your fingertips mournfully over the vicious dent above the wheel well, when Cas says your name.

You glance over; he’s leaning around the open trunk, holding a duffel out to you. _Your_ duffel. The one you dropped in the war room two days ago, doubly heavy with the weight of grief. You blink at him, stunned. “We thought you’d want it,” says Cas, quiet with understanding.

“I grabbed some stuff from your room, too, just in case.” Dean’s back, and moves up to your side. He glances at Sam, too. “Both of you. Hope that’s okay.”

“Great,” says Sam, cracking a smile. “So I can count on some kind of sabotage when we get back.”

“Oh, definitely.” Dean claps him on the back.

Your lower lip’s wobbling as you lift your bag onto your shoulder. “Thanks, guys.”

Mary looks at Dean. “What’s the story on rooms?”

Dean’s holding two keys, the plastic tags catching in the overhead lights. “Only had cash for two,” he says. “Didn’t wanna risk the cards.”

“Fine by me.” Mary plucks one of the keys out of his hands. “Ladies’ll take one, boys can have the other.”

Dean’s throat pulls up in a swallow. “Um—yeah.” He glances at Cas, then you, and heads for the trunk. “Yeah, that works. Meet you guys back here at nine?”

Your face feels warm. Why his hesitation? Was he gonna try to continue that conversation from earlier? Was he gonna—what, try to protest the flawless logic of Mary’s suggestion?

“Sure,” says Mary. “Nine it is.”

Dean, Sam, and Cas’ room is on the other side of the lot, but yours and Mary’s is just a few doors down from the Impala. You risk a look back at them while Mary unlocks the door, and your stomach flips over; Dean and Cas are already watching you as they usher Sam ahead. And their faces—full of regret. _Longing_.

Longing to tell you you’ve got no chance, most likely.

You tear your eyes away and follow Mary inside.

The place is perfectly pleasant, if a little sparse. The blue wallpaper has flecks of gold all over it. Both bed frames feature silver retro designs. Mary drops her bag. She sighs, stretches. “Can I ask you something?”

You drop your bag, too. “Sure.”

She flops down onto one bed. “When d’you think my son’s going to tell me he and Castiel are a couple?”

It startles you into a laugh. “You noticed, huh.”

“Kind of impossible not to.” She folds her hands behind her head. “They’re. . . intense.”

“Yes they are.” Slowly, you sit on the bed opposite her. “But I’m not sure. It took Dean a ton of time to—to get out of his own way and make a move. Actually telling the last person on earth he expected to have to tell. . . that might take some time.”

“Sounds like a Winchester,” says Mary. She rolls to her side to face you. “Are they happy?”

Your heart pitter-patters, a dozen scenes of the two of them flashing through your mind, each more sweet than the last. Complete as they are. Without you. “Yeah,” you hear yourself say. “Yeah, they’re happy.”

“Good.” She closes her eyes, and settles back. “You can have the shower first, if you want.”

Yep, you want. You also want to say something grateful about her not tiptoeing around you, treating you like you’re a fragile flower thanks to the trauma of the last few days. But you grab your shower stuff and close the bathroom door behind you.

You’ve taken a few warm turns under the water when it hits you: no bullshit, no fucking around—Dean and Cas know beyond a doubt that you want them.

Everything Toni said, the dream Cas found you in that he surely told Dean about the second you woke up. . . they know, and they haven’t mentioned it, and all their pitying looks. . . fuck. _Shit_. How can you ever hunt with them again? How can you ever just—just be _easy_ with them, when they know what they know?

You stare at the water swirling around the drain.

You gotta get the hell out of here.

* * *

When Mary slips into the shower next, you throw on fresh jeans and a shirt. The weight of your new phone bumps your hip as you swing your jacket on. Dean _insisted_ on stopping to grab you and Sam new ones barely forty minutes outside Aldrich, hence his shortage of cash. Once you start walking, you’ll download a rideshare app and get a ride to the nearest bus station.

You scribble a note on the pad next to the phone ( _went for a walk, back soon_ ), make sure the room key’s visible on the desk, and carefully, quietly, you slip outside.

“Hey, kiddo.”

You damn near jump out of your skin. Dean and Cas are leaning side by side against the Impala near the dented fender like they were waiting for you. Even so, they’re still as startled deer. Eloquently, you say, “Uh. Hey?”

“Take it you missed our text,” says Dean.

You drift closer, pulling your phone out of your jacket pocket. It’s from Dean’s number, still not added as a contact: **Hey, got a sec? Meet us by the car in 10.**

You gulp, drawing to a halt in front of them. “Yeah. Missed that.”

“It worked out,” Cas says fondly. God, he’s beautiful. The curve of his lower lip looks soft enough to _bite_.

Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks up at you through his lashes, so much eager hope in them that your heart aches. He says, “We need to talk.”

*

*

*

When they get inside the room, Sam drops his bag, drops a hand on his brother’s shoulder, and drags himself to the shower. Soon as the water runs, Cas takes the bag still hanging in Dean’s hand, guides him to sit at the edge of the closest bed, and straddles him.

Dean groans short and deep, pulling Cas in hard by the hips. Their combined relief courses through Cas, heady and slow, and he tips his forehead to Dean’s. He forces his voice to steady: “We have to tell her.”

Dean’s hands tighten. “Look. I. I know that Men of Letters chick said some shit back there, but we just. I mean. Are we _sure_?”

Cas tips Dean’s chin up. “I said I found her in a dream.” He shivers at the memory—the guilt and desire in her eyes when she reached to touch that shuddering door. “I neglected to tell you its contents.”

Dean blinks up at him. Cas stares right back, adoring every fleck of gold amid the green. Dean says, “What’d she dream?”

“You remember last fall, when I was recovering at the bunker.”

“Yeah. ‘Course I do, we were—what about it?”

Cas looks at Dean very pointedly. “The door.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Dean, and his cheeks redden; the tips of his ears go pink, too. “When you got your Sonny Corleone on.”

Cas decides not to comment on the reference. He prefers _Part II_ , though he can’t tell whether that opinion is his own, or Metatron’s. He hopes it’s his own. “Yes.”

But it hits Dean, then, and his eyes go wide. “She—?”

“She was there. Other side of the door.”

Dean goes very still. His eyes fall away from Cas’, unfocused somewhere between them. “What.”

Cas breathes out, a shaky rush. “It was a dream, but it was a memory, too. She—I saw the look on her face. She didn’t back away. She moved _closer_.”

“Oh my god.” Dean ducks his head against Cas’ chest. “So she _did_ hear us.”

Cas holds him close. “And then some.”

“Holy shit.” Dean’s near panting. “We—we gotta talk to her.”

“Yes. But maybe in a few minutes.”

“Why?”

Cas rolls his hips against the half-interested tent beneath Dean’s zipper, and Dean exhales sharp at the burst of pleasure. The sound, the frazzled state of his nerves—the sparks of it ripple along Cas’ grace. “Because having this conversation with you halfway to hard might stop us before we begin.”

“Okay. Fair.” Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket, and, with the end of it resting against Cas’ chest, he starts to type a message. Then his thumbs slow until they stop.

Cas traces fingertips across Dean’s stubble, waiting. Dean gulps, says, “She can’t, though.”

“Why not?”  

“‘Cause we’re. . .” He licks his lips, lowering the phone. “We’re _us_. I—dammit. Last year, when I was. . . and the shit we’ve talked about, and. . . Cas, we got more baggage than even I know what to do with sometimes.”

“You think she doesn’t understand that?” He presses the words to Dean’s forehead. “You think she doesn’t have baggage of her own?”

Dean’s silent, taut.

“She knows,” Cas promises, willing Dean to feel it as much as he does. “She knows better than anyone except your own brother.”

Dean takes a deep, slow breath. Then he lifts his phone and finishes the message. When it’s sent, he drops the phone on the bed behind him and pulls Cas down into a kiss. “Okay,” he says between kisses. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean, Cas, and Mary got you and Sam away from the crazy Brits, but Dean and Cas have figured out how head-over-heels you feel for them. This should be bad, _awful_ , but when they confront you about it, well… things don’t go exactly how you expect.

****“We need to talk,” says Dean. Then he backtracks, jaw bobbing. “Uh—wait, wait a sec. Shit. Lemme try again. That sounded way too serious.”

“Is this not super serious?” Your voice is too fast. Your heart’s pounding. _They wanted to reject you in person_. “‘Cause this feels pretty frickin’ serious.”

“We just wanted to ask you something.” Cas’ voice is steadier than yours or Dean’s, and he holds your gaze with a tender fondness that looks too welcoming for a rejection.

“Yeah.” Dean wets his lips. He shifts. His knuckles strain against the fabric inside his jacket pockets. “What Toni said, back there.” He gulps, and that pause lets all the embarrassment crowd right back up until it’s stifling. “That true?”

With a gulp of your own, you turn just enough to show them your bag over your shoulder. “Would I be trying to jet if it wasn’t?”

At the sight of your bag, something in Dean cracks. His face falls, and he looks up at you, utterly stricken. “You’re leaving?”

Even Cas is staring like you’ve broken his heart. You manage, “Yeah, I’m leaving.”

Dean croaks, “Why?”

“Why am—why d’you _think_?” Your pulse drums and drums. “Because that British bitch tore my heart out and held it up to you. And it’s—if you wanted it, you. . . you woulda taken it by now.”

Cas’ brows tilt over those lovely eyes, and he says your name with so much—fuck, you’d call it love if this was any other situation. But it isn’t love. It’s just pity.

 _I’m sorry._ You send it to Cas automatically; praying to him is as natural and unstoppable as wanting him. _Fuck. I’m so sorry._

“Jesus.” Dean’s voice is soft. “Kid, we—”

“Yeah, I know.” Your lower lip’s trembling now. “You don’t have to explain, man, I was there that whole time you were freaking out over Cas being gone. All those nights falling asleep in those musty-ass books—I know, okay. And Cas, you gave up— _everything_ —just so Dean could have a shot at surviving. You guys are so good together, you’ve gone through so _much_ together, and I’m just. . .” You grit your teeth, and make yourself meet Dean’s wide-open gaze. “You wanted me to ‘tell you on the flipside,’ right. So. Welcome to the flipside.”

Dean pushes off the car to take a step closer to you, which startles you into a twitch, but you stay put. “There were two sides to that,” Dean says, earnest. “Remember? I said there was a lotta stuff I wanted to tell you, too.”

Your voice shakes. “What stuff.”

“That we—” Dean glances back at Cas. “Dude, I’m crap at this.”

Cas comes forward, too, searching your eyes. “Days ago. You asked what Dean said to me in that graveyard.”

Oh, shit. Yes you did. “Yeah. . .?”

He holds up his hand, two fingers poised to brush against your forehead. “Let me show you.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. See what I mean? He’s way better.”

Cas rolls his eyes Dean-ward in fond exasperation. “Will you just let me do this?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean lifts both hands, mock surrender. They aren’t—are they shaking? Shit, he’s _nervous_.

Why is he nervous?

You glance back at Cas. His fingertips hover expectantly. “Okay.” Your heart’s back to pounding. “Y-yeah, sure. Show me.”

His fingertips land gently against your brow, and the world shimmers with new colors, the parking lot still hovering at the corner of your eyes as—

_Dean wants to break apart, soul bomb or no; the grip on your sleeves may be the only thing holding him together. He wants you at his side, even if he won’t admit it. “No,” he says instead. “No, I gotta do this on my own.” He presses in, close. “But hey. You gotta promise me something.”_

_“Anything.” Everything._

_“If you guys. I mean. If you, and her. . .” His hand slips around your waist, broad and warm, gripping tight to one hip. “I won’t hold it against you if you wind up together, huh. Just. . . make it good.” Your eyes dart up to her, only to find that she’s already watching you. As if she_ knows _—as if she’s_ always _known—how much you and Dean want her. And Dean, he—he wants this for you, this happiness, even if he won’t be part of it. His voice is pleading: “Make it good, okay.”_

_The heartache is overwhelming, consuming; you turn your head to seal your promise against his mouth—_

You flinch back from Cas’ touch. Your heart’s going a mile a minute. They’re watching you, eager and hopeful and so, _so_ beautiful. Close enough to reach out and touch.

“We’ve been trying to find a moment to tell you,” Cas says gently. “We feel the same way. We have since the beginning.”

Your bag drops into the crook of your arm; you let it hit the asphalt. Their faces are just—fuck, just lovely with hope. You croak, “What?”

Cas is smiling a little now, encouraged. “Everything you just said, about us together—you didn’t see the other side of it.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, his throat pulling up in another gulp. “The—all that time researching how to save Cas, I. I thought I was being way too obvious about how much I wanted— _needed_ —you there with me.”

“And I didn’t say ‘yes’ to Lucifer to save Dean alone,” says Cas, with a knowing dip of his chin that lets you fill in the rest.

“And everything else.” Dean’s doing that _thing_ , the thing where his face is one big wreck of emotion and he’s doing his damndest to hide it. It makes your heart flutter frantically. “I mean—all those moments, everything, there’s a half you didn’t see that we wanted to share with you so bad. Just didn’t know how to ask.”

Astonishment keeps you rooted to the spot. You manage, “So you’re asking.”

“We’re asking,” says Dean. “So don’t go.” His voice cracks; he looks up, away, before coming back to you. “Please don’t go. Not when we just got you back.”

“Not when there’s a place for you here.” Cas takes your right hand and presses it over his heart.

It oughta be cheesy, but shit, it’s _Cas_. You burble a laugh, stepping even closer, and Dean does it, too—reaches for your left hand and settles it over his heart. “And here,” he adds. His shirt is soft and warm, and Cas’ shirt is smooth and warm, your thumb against his tie, their palms warm over your knuckles.

“Dean.” You sniffle. Shit, when did you get all wibbly?

“Yeah.” His thumb smooths over your hand. “Yeah, kiddo.”

“You wanted to kiss me so bad in that graveyard, right.”

His laugh is a little breathless, his grin absolutely radiant. “Yeah. Jesus, you got no idea how much.”

“I get the feeling she wouldn’t stop you now,” Cas murmurs.

Adrenaline sparks along your nerves. “Wouldn’t stop you, either.”

“I’ll wait my turn.” Cas squeezes your hand before releasing it, shifting his body slightly toward Dean. He—oh, shit, he wants to _watch_ Dean kiss you.

And you want to give him something worth watching.

One of your hands is still over Dean’s heart, the soft-solid curve of a pec, but you curl the other one into his sleeve. You close your eyes, taking shaky breaths. “Dean, you wanna help me out, here?”

His forehead bumps yours, gently. “How ‘bout we take it back to the start.” His mouth is so close that you can feel his voice against your lips. “When I was right here, and I didn’t go for it.”

 _Very_ unlike then, the tip of his nose nuzzles yours. “I wanted you to do it,” you whisper, and fuck, you can _feel_ the way his lips pull into a smile.

“Lemme make it up to you,” he murmurs.

Fuck. Fuck, endless fantasies, a zillion nights laying awake imagining this, and you never would've guessed that his first kiss would be this _tender_. It’s soft, easy, his full lips pliant against yours before they open. His few-days’-growth of stubble prickles across your chin, and when you shiver his fingertips smooth around the back of your neck, into your hair. You moan before you can even think to take it back, which sets off an _mmph_ from Dean and a noise from Cas, too. You reach for him, blindly, and he finds your hand and laces your fingers together.

Dean slips his spare arm around your waist to draw you right up against him, and _god_ , he’s solid, sturdy, but his layers make him cozy. Sparks shiver across your body as his tongue slips against yours, tentative touches at first and then bolder, _deeper_. When you shyly ease a bite over his lower lip, he lets out a whimper-sigh that you’re positive he meant to keep to himself, if only by the way he pulls back and grins bashfully, his cheeks pink. “Jesus,” he breathes, and his hand slips out of your hair so his thumb can stroke your cheek. He’s utterly wonderstruck, all big green eyes and up-close freckles. “God, kid.”

It’s weirdly flattering; you know he’s experienced, but if one kiss gets him starry-eyed. . . this bodes well. You glance at Cas, who’s beaming at you and Dean. Your hand is still in his, and he’s stroking his thumb along your knuckles. Just like outside that bar. Somehow you find your voice. “Cas, you tell Dean about the, uh. The Lazy Shag?”

Dean blinks. “The what, now?”

“Where we went after the graveyard,” Cas clarifies, and Dean relaxes. “And yes.” Cas’ thumb crosses deliberately, slowly, over your knuckles, his eyes locked on yours. “I told him exactly what happened. How much I ached for you then. How—how close you were, but so far away.”

Aaand you’re back to wibbly. You shift to get even close to him, the hem of his jacket brushing your knees. “Not far away now.”

“No,” Cas agrees, just as starstruck as Dean as his gaze flickers between your eyes and mouth “No, you’re not.”

“God,” you breathe, giddy inside and out, “is this really okay?”

“Yes,” Dean insists. “Don’t make me push your faces together. ‘Cause I will.”

“You may have to.” Bashful, you grin up at Cas. “You _are_ the guy who caught me pining at a closed door.”

He lifts a hand so he can cradle your jaw with his elegant fingers. “Sometime I’ll have to show you what was going on behind that closed door,” he murmurs, all heat. “Then you wouldn’t hesitate.”

“Shit.” You’re close enough to see every shade of blue in those gorgeous eyes. “Cas.” And then again, because you’re burning up and you can’t make yourself close the distance: “Cas, please.”

The low noise in the back of his throat is still going when that sinful mouth touches yours, _holding_ , coming together in a slow, tender press that lasts and lasts. Then he pulls away just a bit. His nose brushes yours, hovering close. “Perfect.” It’s barely a whisper, barely a sound at all. “You are _perfect_.” And he ducks back in, slipping his hand deeper into your hair. He parts your lips almost instantly, _fuck_ , and you shiver as you trace your tongue along his, eager and unshy.

“Jesus,” Dean mutters, close; you peek and he’s nuzzling along Cas’ temple. “You guys—unh, fuck, look at you.”

Cas rasps a noise and just kisses deeper, lush and clinging; you do your best to keep up, astounded at how bold he is, how good he tastes. With his lower lip between your teeth, you slip your hands around his waist, beneath his jackets. He’s warm, solid with muscle, and Dean’s close enough that his body’s pressing against your hand through Cas’ jackets.

They want this. They want _you_. You’re—holy _shit_. They want you so bad, they can barely keep those maddeningly sexy noises to themselves.

You give yourself permission to be bold, too.

Another plunging kiss and you tighten your fingers, dragging Cas’ dress shirt out of his slacks, a slow pull of fabric, and you actually gasp with how much it lights you up. He groans, and then your hands alight on the smooth heat of his waist. Your thumbs trail the vee of his hips just above his belt. Fuck, you’re shaky all over. “Cas,” you whisper in the non-space between you. “Dean. Damn it. I . . .” You glance around, eyeing the quiet lot, the closed curtains in their room and back in yours. “I don’t wanna stop.”

“Yeah,” breathes Dean. “Me neither. Only I’m out of dineros.” He glances at Cas, giving him an _eh_? face. “Cas?”

“No,” Cas says, his hands smoothing up your sides as he reluctantly pulls back. “For the hundredth time, I’m not pulling money out of thin air. Inflation is rampant enough as it is. And I’m not stealing.”

“Just unlock an empty room,” Dean tries.

Cas’ mouth is twitching at the corners. “ _No_. That’s just another form of stealing. Besides. Its next tenant may walk in on us. Another set of lovers, or a family from three states over.”

“Lame,” Dean says. “C’mon. What family would hole up in a place like this?”

Cas glances at you, then at Dean. His eyes practically twinkle. “Ours, it seems.”

“Oh my god.” You duck your head against Cas’ chest. “You fucking goobers.”

“You love it,” Dean teases, then digs in his pockets. He walks around to the other side of the car. “Here. We got a back seat, at least.” The locks spring up on every door.

“Humans,” Cas says, warm and mischievous. “You’re insatiable.”

“Yeah, like you’ve never begged for it.” Dean’s grinning ear to ear. “Get in.”

Cas holds the back door open for you; you slip inside onto the leather bench, chucking your bag into the front seat, and Cas follows. Dean comes in on the other side so he’s on your left and you’re in the middle, pressed hip to hip with them. Shifting, shimmying—shit, there’s hardly any room. “Crap,” Dean mutters. He settles an arm around your shoulder; you resist the urge to frickin’ snuggle into him. “The Ritz this is not.”

“Hmm.” You glance around. “Here—lemme try this.” You shift forward, grab the front seat, then turn back, throwing your thigh across both of Dean’s so you can straddle him.

His hands latch onto your hips. “Oh, Jesus, yes.”

You’re still up on your knees (weird—since when is the Impala tall enough for that?), and you hover over him, breathing shakily. His palms rove up your sides, just barely tracing beneath your shirt. Even that teensy bit of contact burns fizzling-hot, makes you lightheaded. You lean in so your foreheads press together, and Dean’s breathing shakily too; you can feel it on your lips. His hands tighten, and he slurs, “I wanna pull you down on me.”

Hah, shit, the groan _pours_ outta your throat. “What, I’m not close enough yet?”

His hands are practically twitching on your hips. “No. God, no. Not yet. Not ‘til. . .”

You glance happily at Cas. “‘Til what?”

“‘Til I’m inside you,” Dean rasps. Even in the dim light, his pupils are dark and wide. “God, kid—” He hauls you down just as he rolls his hips up, and _fuck_ , he’s _hard_ through his jeans. Your legs are wide around his hips so he’s _right_ there, grinding into you, his big hands locked to pull you down again and again.

You barely recognize your own voice in the sounds you’re making; Cas leans in and you lean into him, throwing an arm around his neck, and he gently tilts your mouth up to his. The contrast of his soft lips with the steady grind of Dean’s hips working you into—god, what a fucking _rush_.

“Guh,” Dean manages when you and Cas come up for air. “I’m gonna wake the whole frickin’ place, if you two keep that up.”

You glance guiltily behind you. “More worried about Sam or your mom looking out a window.”

“Don’t worry,” Cas says. “I’ve warded us.”

But Dean’s ducked his head against yours. “Oh my _god_ ,” he moans. “I forgot. Kid, you missed the part where my mom basically—good as told me about all her hanky-panky that went down in this backseat.”

Your surprised laugh actually squeaks. “Wait. Really?”

“Never gonna unsee the look on her face,” he mutters, shuddering.

Cas rolls his eyes. “You’ve had other women back here,” he says. “Partners who weren’t us.”

“So has _Sam_ ,” you point out. “That doesn’t seem to bother you. Or us.”

Dean’s hand curls heavy around your thigh, considering.

“Besides,” you add. “Think how many times you’ve gutted this thing. It’s not even the same upholstery, like, four or five times over.”

“A ship of Theseus,” Cas murmurs, and his hand settles over Dean’s on your thigh. “Just like you. Like both of you. All the times I’ve felt your bones knit together beneath my hands. Your souls fluttering against my fingertips while I made you new again. . .”

Dean reaches for Cas, latching onto his coat to drag him closer. At your barely-contained whimper, they both smile, and then their mouths fit together. Fuck, _look_ at them, you’ve—you’ve never been allowed to stare when they kiss, never been permitted to notice the pink slips of tongue, the shifting muscles in their jaws, hear the spit-slick sounds mingled with pulls of air. You lean forward and press kisses against the shifting tendons of Dean’s throat. He _moans_ when you open your mouth against the salt taste of him, his hips jerking up. You shift, and it slots the solid, thick length of him into the crease of your thigh. “Dean, _fuck_.”

“It’s not just me,” he says, rough, and shifts, pulling slightly back from Cas, angling to the side with you still astride his hips. He takes your hand and settles it over Cas’ shirt. It stays pressed overtop yours, and he drags it down, _down_ , over Cas’ tie, his belt, and—

You catch your breath as your hand’s forced to curve over the thick bulge of Cas; he _growls_ and his hips jerk hard into your palm. Dean moves your hand, kneading as you learn the shape of Cas through his slacks. Cas, panting, palms the back of your neck and pulls you into an open-mouthed kiss. Dean’s hand leaves yours to latch back onto your hips, pulling you into a slow, deep grind.

God, there’s so much sensation you’re drowning in it. Cas’ soft kisses, shallow brushes of tongue before he goes deeper; Dean’s teeth dragging against your neck, the way goosebumps trail the wake of his fingers as he pulls your collar aside to get better access. Then they switch, and Dean’s unsteady exhale ghosts over the shine Cas left on your lips, and you can’t help the giddy rush of joy that swirls through you.

You reach between your own parted thighs to tug at Dean’s belt with wobbly hands, and his eyes flash with desire. He ends up doing the work himself, because Cas starts pulling your jacket off, and whoa, distraction. Cas goes for your neck immediately, soft lips followed by the barest bite. “Fuck,” you gasp, burying your grip in his hair. “Cas. . .”

“Yes,” he breathes, one hand on your hip, “yes, here, I—” he shifts, and you straddle his lap, barely sparing a thought for how you aren’t kicking the front seat. His big hands slide down to grasp your ass, _hard_ , almost hard enough to hurt. He uses it as leverage to grind himself up against you. “ _Oh_ ,” Cas moans, broken, his head tipping back briefly before he brings it forward again, watching you with huge, reverent eyes. Dean nuzzles him, pulls one of Cas’ hands free so he can suck those fingers into his mouth. “Been so long,” Cas manages. “We—we talked about this so _much_.”

God, _what_. “You have?”  

“You nearly heard us, once,” he says, and his eyes flicker knowingly up to yours.

Ah. _That_. “The Door Incident,” you mutter, ducking your face into your hands.

“Oh my god,” Dean says happily, close, “you got a name for it?”

“Yeah.” You peek at him through your fingers. “It was that mortifying.”

“Mortifying that you saw it,” Cas murmurs, “or that you enjoyed it?”

“Um. Both?” You let your hands drop, biting your lip.

Cas looks at Dean. God, they’re smoldery. Cas says, “I want to show her. From our side.”

Dean’s smile only grows. “Yeah, all right.”

Cas reaches for you, then hesitates, his brows up in question.

You tug his hand forward. “Dude, you _know_ I want thi—”

 _You’re in the soft glow of Dean’s room, not from Cas’ perspective like that graveyard flashback, but beside them. You can’t see much below the strong curves of their bare shoulders because—oh. Oh, fuck, it’s gotta be because you were right; Cas_ is _holding Dean up, and their faces are so close to one another’s, so much sweat-slick concentration. “I can’t,” Dean damn near whimpers, “Cas, I can’t—”_

_“Yes you can,” says Cas, moving slow, moving deep. “Say it. Let me hear you.”_

_Dean thunks his head back against the door, eyes closed. Throat shifting. Wrecked, utterly desperate, he gasps your name._

_“Louder,” growls Cas, pressing in deeper._

_Dean groans. “God, I can’t, she—she’ll hear us.”_

_“Then say it how you would if she was here.” Cas moves one hand, dipping it between Dean’s spread thighs, starts jacking in long, easy pulls. “If she was doing this for you.”_

_Dean’s brows tilt up; he groans again. Your name is a quiet, shaken plea he barely gets out._

_Cas moans, too, and though he’s totally in control, his eyes are so soft. “You’d barely last, would you.”_

_“Oh, god.” Dean’s heaving for air. “Cas. Yes—fuck—please, yes—”  
_

Cas’ hand falls away from your forehead.

They’re watching you, a bundle of nerves, and the _should-we-have-showed-her_ doubt flickers across their faces.

You remember to breathe. “Holy shit.” You reach for Cas’ belt. “Holy fricking shit, you guys, I don’t know how we’re gonna—in this space—but we’re gonna.”

Dean’s laugh is shaky with relief; you kiss him with a desperate whimper as Cas’ hands start opening your jeans. They actually disappear, a soft _fwump_ into the front seat, and then the only thing separating you from Cas’ trousers are your absolutely soaked panties. Cas’ hands smooth up your waist beneath your tee, down your hips, warm down your bare thighs. He’s staring at you like he never, in all his incomprehensibly vast existence, thought he’d get to have this. Have _you_. “I want to touch you,” he murmurs. His hand tilts to cup your sex through your panties.

Dean groans, “Oh, Jesus,” and then swears again, louder, when you take Cas’ hand, move it up, and slip them beneath the waistband of those panties.

Your heart pounds, pulse racing, and—and then his steady, warm fingertips trace a path through the spread-wide slick of you. You cry out, one hand reaching for Dean, who takes your hand and pulls it around his own shoulder. He never got further than unbuttoning his jeans, but up top, he’s down to just his tee, and it’s something to hang onto, something to anchor yourself to as Cas’ fingers explore slow and gentle.

Cas is panting, too, and he looks up at you with a question and you think at him _whatever it is, yes_ , and your panties straight-up disappear. His fingers keep working, swirling around and around your entrance, ripples of pleasure so intense they’re almost unbearable. “ _Ungh_ ,” Dean breathes, rapt and wide-eyed.

With a grip in the short hair at the back of Dean’s head, you lock your other hand around Cas’ wrist and meet his eyes. His fingers go still, poised exactly where you’d hoped. You pull him in.

Arousal follows the press of those two fingers all the way inside, and fuck, all three of you groan deep at the sight, at the _feeling_ , holy _shit_. Cas slips in and out, slow at first, easier every moment, dazzlingly, _dizzyingly_ good. Your body adjusts to him so quickly; Jesus, it’s been a long time since you were this fucking turned on. “More,” you gasp after a minute, “I—I can take another.”

It’s Dean who skims one huge hand down your back, then further, curving over your ass until he’s tracing the slick of Cas’ pistoning fingers with every pass, tracing stunning whorls of pleasure around the sensitive drag of his fingers.

“Yes,” you beg, crushing your forehead to Dean’s. “Please—” And he slips a finger in alongside Cas’.

You cry out through gritted teeth; _fuck_ , it’s good, all the little shifts as they get the rhythm right. Dean follows Cas’ lead, in and out. You get the hang of it, rolling your hips into every press inside along to their encouraging murmurs. When you lift your eyes to watch them, they’re just as glazed with pleasure as you. It makes you whimper, clenching around their touch for another burst of trembly, all-over heat.

“God,” Dean breathes, “you want more, don’t you.”

“Four?” You’re starting to sweat, and so is Dean. Even Cas is sheened in blue and gold light from the neon motel sign, gleaming off windows to reflect onto his face. “I—fuck, yeah, but I dunno if I can. Probably hurt too much.”

Cas looks up at you through his lashes. “Not with my grace.”

You go still, and so do they. “What.”

“It doesn’t need to hurt.” He shifts his hand, using his thumb to pull slow circles around your clit, heated and deep. You _keen_ , shuddering down into his touch. “Dean.” His voice is lower than the goddamn foundations of the earth. “Try another.”

“Fuck.” Dean’s barely got sound left. “ _Cas_ ,” but you feel him shift another finger in place, and on the next stroke—

You don’t mean to cry out so fucking loudly, but here you are, with Dean and Cas driving you to madness on four fingers. All your muscles quiver with new, deep pleasure, a hot rush of it when they begin to move. “Holy fuck,” you gasp, squeezing your eyes shut. “Oh, holy shit.”

Cas presses his spare hand over your heart. “Breathe,” he murmurs, and your lungs fill a little easier. “We can stop.”

“Don’t.” You lean against Dean, practically sagging, and he noses tenderly along your neck. “God, please don’t stop.” Another shaky gulp of air, and you look at them both, wild-eyed and desperately turned on. “I—I want. . .”

Cas’ gaze goes soft and lovely. “You can tell us.”

“Yeah.” Dean kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Trust me—not a whole lot we haven’t wanted.”

Deep breath. Even their fingers have stilled inside you. “Cas, if you. If your grace—if you can grace me into it, so it doesn’t hurt much. . . I want you both.” You wet your lips, and trail your hands down the front of both their pants, making sure to meet their eyes even as they flutter, so your meaning is unmistakable when you add, “Right where you are.”

“Oh, fuck.” Dean jolts up into your touch, and from the shock in his voice, it’s completely involuntary. “ _Kid_.” And he says your name, too, a broken slur of sound. “God, yes, I’m so on board. Cas?”

He’s staring at you in wonder. “Yes.” His spare hand slips up to your neck; he gently tugs your forehead to his. “Yes, if you’ll have us—I’d be honored. _We’d_ be honored.”

Man. Only Cas, right. You squeak against his lips, a clinging kiss. “Me, too.”

They pull their fingers out, slow and careful. Dean immediately starts wrestling his jeans off, but Cas, with his gaze on yours, sucks the taste of you off his fingers.

The Impala rocks and rocks as everybody shifts, moves; Dean ends up on his back on the bench seat, his head resting on the side with the dented fender. He’s down to gray boxer-briefs, his jeans still caught around his right ankle. You’ve kept your shirt and bra, somehow, and Cas has kept his shirt but it’s hanging open. He’s bare, otherwise, and _close_ behind you, so the smooth warmth of his cock is pressed against your ass, his arms around you. You’re hovering over Dean, your knees spread on either side of his thighs.

There should _not_ be room for all this. Since when does Baby have room for all this? Your knees are spread pretty wide, and Cas has space to sit up completely at your back. You twist, glancing up at him. “You doing something all space-timey in here?”

“Maybe.” He smooths hair off your shoulder. “I want us to be comfortable.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” says Dean. “You ever tried to give decent head in a backseat?” He grins at your breathless laugh. “It’s tough, is all I’m sayin’.” His hips roll up a little; his cock is straining against the fabric of his boxer briefs. Straining toward you. “Shit,” he breathes, “shoulda just ditched these, huh.”

“Allow me,” Cas murmurs, leaning around you to palm Dean’s hip.

His boxer-briefs melt away like they were never there, and—oh, shit. Cas’ chin lands on your shoulder, his hands stroking heavy across your sides, your belly. Your hips. “Beautiful, isn’t he.”

Your mouth is dry. Dean’s looking up at you with that totally gutted nervousness. “Fuck,” you whisper. “I. I dunno if you guys are gonna fit.”

Cas’ smile grows against your neck. “Leave that to me.”

You reach for Dean, pulse thundering—and then something occurs to you. “Wait, shit.” How did your lust-addled brain not think of this before? “Condoms. We. They’re not gonna work if we wanna do—uh. You both.”

To your surprise, Dean grins a slow, slanty grin. “Kid,” he says, “you’re gonna love this.”

You squint, curious, but then Cas murmurs against your ear, “We don’t need them. My grace protects you from everything a condom would usually guard against.”

Oh. You— _oh_. You twist to see him, gripping his hands over yours. “Everything?”

He’s smiling, and clearly trying not to. “Everything.”

“Oh my god.” You tip your forehead into his jaw. “How do you guys keep from doing it 24/7?”

Dean laughs, and Cas grins, kissing your temple. “It is a struggle.”

“So was waiting for this.” Dean takes your hands, and your fingers thread together and back, together and over. Just that little touch is incinerating, with him staring up at you like he is. “C’mere,” he says, quiet. “C’mere, kiddo.”

He keeps one hand in your hair, one hand on your hip when you slowly, carefully sink down on him, gasping mouths brushing together. And it’s—fucking _Christ_ , the warmth of him only amplifies how wet you are, the downright obscene slide of him all the way in until you’re sitting on his hips, the warmth of his skin and the scratch of wiry curls. Even Cas groans by your ear, one of his hands cupped around the back of Dean’s neck, the other hand slipping down your belly, between your legs.

Your arms are shaking. Your thighs, your whole legs, your lower lip, and Dean whispers, “Hey, hey—c’mon, c’mere,” and he pulls you to settle against him, the soft skin of his belly against yours, the scrape of his sparse chest hair across one sensitive nipple as your bra rucks higher. But you let yourself relax, let him bear your weight, and you hide your face in his neck and whimper.

“There we go,” he murmurs, his hands up your back, one beneath your shirt and one over it, broad and warm, calluses scratching soft. “Relax, okay. We got you.” He turns his face toward your ear, lets his teeth come together against one lobe in a tug. “Relax,” he murmurs again.

And whoa, you do, but that feeling is so fucking _lewd,_ so tuned in to the feel of Dean stretching you open. Cas’ fingers swirl again against your clit despite being crushed between you and Dean, and he leans forward, mouthing kisses down the length of one shoulder blade. “Tell me when you’re ready.”

“Yesterday,” you grit. God, even with Cas’ grace, can they really. . .? “Go for it, Cas, just tell me what to do.”

“Exactly what you already are.” He’s practically slurring. “Just keep your muscles lax, and I’ll do the rest.”

You nod against Dean, reaching up behind you to get a hand around the back of Cas’ neck, half buried in the sweat-damp ends of his hair.

The pace of his fingers slows, _slows,_ and then you feel the rise in heat, the shuddering so deep within you that you cry out into Dean’s neck. “Jesus,” Dean mutters, twitching inside you, hands buried in your hair so he’s piling it over his fingers, “Cas, what’re you— _oh._ ”

There’s another wave of it; you focus on keeping yourself relaxed around Dean even as you brace your heels against the door ( _still wearing shoes,_ you realize dimly) and drive yourself against him, shuddering, whimpering against the little thrusts, and then you feel the velvet-hot press of Cas against you, against _Dean_. “Oh god,” you croak, getting up to your elbows above Dean so you can press your foreheads together, “oh fuck, Cas, I—”

“I can wait.” He rasps it in your ear, but it’s not confident, not steady, it’s a _wreck_ , so desperate that your cunt gives another threatening pulse. “Just—give me the word.”

You shiver in their arms and close your eyes, but you nod.

“That’s a yes,” Dean groans, brushing it against your lips, kissing you in a desperate cling. “God, Cas, please, c’mon, lemme feel—oh _fuck_ —”

Cas is thick, velvet-hard, and fuck, it _hurts_ , but he slides in so fucking easy; you’re soaked and Dean is smooth and soaked from you, and Cas groans so deep in his chest you feel it vibrate against your back.

Jesus Christ, fucking _ow_ , you’re throbbing, burning up with pain so intense that every panting exhale is a whimper, but Cas’ fingertips still twitch around your clit as his grace sweeps hot and probing through your folds and deeper, easing everything, and. . . and oh, _god_. It’s. . . it’s. . . _good_.

It’s so _hot_ , holding you impossibly, unstoppably open against the warm-wet-thick invasion of both of them. It’s such a tight fit you can feel them throbbing, or maybe it’s you, your walls clenching and unclenching in little spasms. “Breathe,” Cas instructs, but the way it breaks, he’s having just as hard a time with this as you are. “Both of you. Come on.” You follow and so does Dean, locking his hand around the back of your neck and breathing out hard, ragged. “Re— _oh_. Relax.”

You nod against Dean. “Okay. Okay.” You let your weight fall on Dean again, and he just goes with it, and he feels _so_ good, and it’s _so_ hot in this car, _fuck_ , you’re gonna _Titanic_ the shit out of these windows.

“Gotcha, kiddo,” Dean whispers. His hand strokes up into your hair, pulls Cas down against you. “God, you guys feel good _._ ”

“Yeah?” You shift some weight onto your elbows.

“Yeah. I’m—Jesus Chr— _ist_.”

You’ve given an experimental shift up, just enough for them to slip out a few inches. Then, in Dean’s wide-eyed, slack-jawed pause, you rock your hips back, taking them in again.

Cas slams a hand between the speakers on the back ledge, your name falling from his lips, heated on your skin; Dean cries “ _Fuck_ ,” and shudders beneath you, eyes squeezing shut. “Oh my fuh—oh _god_. _Yeah_.”

You do it again and Dean actually whimpers—nope, wait, that’s _you_ , because pleasure _surges_ deep between your legs, a slow, frictioned drag of soaking-hot bliss.

“That’s it,” Dean growls, letting your lower lip slide between his teeth. “God, yes, that’s it. Go your own pace, all right, we’ll keep up with you.”

You nod; sweat’s gathering in rucked-up sections of clothes, beading on your upper lip. You brace one hand on the leather bench so you can reach up behind you, burying your hand in Cas’ hair. “Cas?” Another shuddering gasp from you as they help with your rhythm. “Talk to me, man.”

He groans, brief and deep. “I can’t,” he grits. He’s up against your ear, breathing broken syllables of Enochian. He wraps an arm around your middle and makes a sound like a sob. “So close,” he moans, “you’re both so _close_ , I never . . . and _Dean._ ”

Dean’s looking just past you, up at Cas; God, his green eyes can get so soft. “Yeah, Cas.”

Cas shudders; you feel it everywhere you’re connected. “Never thought we’d have this again. Days ago, you—I never thought—I— _oh_.”

“Me, neither,” Dean's voice is hoarse, and maybe it’s just the haze and heat, every slow-rocking thrust addling your mind, but you think his eyes are shining a little bit wetly. “Wanted this,” he says, choked-up and raw as his eyes come back to you. “Wanted this so fucking bad, and I—god, I don’t, I—I never get what I want, but— _both_ of you, I— _nnghfuck._ ”

Your eyes are stinging too; you never would’ve guessed Dean babbles during sex, or gets overwhelmed when it gets sappy, but the evidence is slipping down his temples in shining streaks, and you dip to kiss him, tightening your grip in Cas’ hair. 

It’s so _good_ , this rhythm they’re starting to try, rolling their hips carefully with you. It’s hard to focus on any one thing, but you try anyway, trying to savor every sensation: the heat of their skin, the barely-contained strength in their touches, the rapid rise and fall of their chests, the warm leather beneath your knees, the brush of Cas’ open shirt against your back and sides. The helpless noise Dean makes when you shift to kiss the tear tracks at his temples, his long lashes fluttering against your jaw. Cas’ murmurs of encouragement, and Dean’s, too, when he finds his voice again.

A few more thrusts and you can pick up speed just a little, tightening the grace-washed heat of arousal in your lower belly, turning in on itself, until every single thrust has their slick cocks dragging against oversensitive points of white-hot need inside you. You have time for a “So close, _please_ ,” before Cas reaches past you to grip Dean’s hips and shoves them both in harder, _deeper,_ quivering pleasure building to a crescendo—and then it all shatters, radiating bliss as your walls grip and grip and _grip_ , spasming, shuddering, shivering around them as they come, too, twitching, pulsing and hot, their path suddenly even easier than it was before. When Cas finally makes one final, wrung-out sound through his teeth, your elbows give up and you half-crash into Dean.

It takes a few minutes to actually frickin’ move. Your whole body seems determined to keep you there, shaking between them. Dean’s damp face is buried in your neck, and he’s clinging tight and needy, one of his hands deep in Cas’ hair, so Cas’ mouth is pressed to your neck. Everybody’s panting, long, ragged pulls of air, twitching with little _ah_ s and _nnngh_ s.

When you make it back to your knees, all the sweat-damp places between you begin to cool. With shaking thighs and and hand braced on the back of the seat, you slowly lift yourself up, and _off_ , and you sag back into Cas’ arms. His shirt’s still open, his chest warm against your back, and his arms twine around you. His forehead’s damp when he rubs against your temple.

“What’s this.” You’re damn near slurring. “Thought you ‘didn’t sweat under any circumstances,’ Cas.”

Dean laughs, surprised, and Cas chuckles. “He didn’t need to know about this.”

You tilt to look at him, studying those happy blue eyes. _Sometimes I think you play confused just to throw them off_ , you think at him. His smile is too knowing; his chin dips.

“Jesus,” Dean says faintly. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“God, speak for yourself.” You grin, bashful. “Kinda made a mess, though.”

Dean’s eyes gleam. “Betcha Cas can do something about that.”

“I could,” Cas murmurs. His broad hand slips down your belly, past it, between your legs, into warmth and wetness. You shift to kiss him, twitching into his touch.

It’s too much, you’re still too sensitive—but you’re kind of numb, too. Cas finds the middle ground anyway in a slow swirl that ratchets you right back up even as he leaves your thighs dry and smooth.

“ _Oh_ ,” you whimper, hips jerking into his fingers, “Cas, _yeah_ —god, don’t stop.”

Dean struggles up to his elbows for a better view. “You gonna come again?”

“Y-yeah.” It’s inevitable now, the peak Cas is drawing you toward, graced or not, but you can feel your quivering muscles tightening in that sparkling-deep way that says the drop is close. “Fuck. I—yeah.” You roll your hips into the steady pads of his fingers that press exactly as hard as you need.

Dean manages to sit up, scooting in close, lifting your shirt to press open-mouthed kisses between your breasts, down the swell of one above your bra. “C’mon,” he slurs against your skin as you trace fingers through his hair. “Let’s see it one more time, huh.”

Cas’ lips graze your neck as he works, his other hand coming up to slip beneath your bra, kneading a little while Dean kisses and suckles between his fingers. “Take as long as you need.”

It’s barely left his mouth when his fingers tease the orgasm out of you, a simmering wave of heat that curls all the way to your toes, and you jerk into his slowing touch, reaching behind you to grip his hair, hard because you know he won’t mind.

You slump when your body gives up. Damn, it’s warm in here. Cas puts the windows down a little, and you find and replace your panties; Dean does the same with his t-shirt and boxer-briefs. Before long you’re settling into the crook of Cas’ arm, your thighs laid across Dean’s. His big hands smooth up them as he grins at you. “Damn,” he says. “Can’t wait to get home to a real bed.”

Ooh, boy. “Wouldn’t mind that.”

“Nor would I,” Cas admits. He reaches for Dean, who laces their fingers together. “It’s been too long since we shared a bed.”

You blink. “You guys—you haven’t done it since. . .?” You’ll worry about your verb choice later.

They study each other fondly. “Dunno if that handie before we left the bunker counts,” Dean says.

“I’d give it half credit,” teases Cas.

Dean glances down at you. “We could show you.”

“No, no—I just.” You’re kind of thrilled at how much they want to share, so quickly, so _willingly_ , but you’re stuck on the fact that this was the first chance they’ve had to be _together_ together since before Cas let Lucifer in. No wonder they got all choked up. “We shoulda. I shoulda let you two. . .”

“Hey.” Dean kisses the top of your head, pressing his mouth there. “Kid, this isn’t an us-you situation.” He breathes out, slow. “What we did just now. . . that was just. That was all I ever coulda wanted. I know that’s the case with you too, Cas.”

“It is,” he promises, eyes soft as he watches Dean.

“And me.” You’re all wibbly again. “Just. Can’t believe you guys actually feel the same way.”

“We’re gonna prove it to you,” says Dean.

“Every chance we get,” says Cas.

For that, all you can do is kiss them again.

Eventually you settle into some kind of pile, a little cramped but nowhere near uncomfortable thanks to Cas’ grace. You’re surprised when his eyes drift shut. “Thought you don’t sleep?” you whisper.

His eyes flick right back open. “‘Don’t’ doesn’t mean ‘can’t.’”

“Yeah,” says Dean, faint, already half-asleep. “Shoulda seen him before I got him to close his eyes. Like frickin’ Gandalf or something.”

“You shush,” says Cas, and his fingers tangle with yours over Dean’s chest. “You have to admit it’s more practical.”

“It’s creepy,” Dean mutters.

“Gotta side with Dean, here,” you admit. “But they’re lovely eyes, Cas.”

“Thank you.” He kisses your fingertips.

Smiling into Dean’s shoulder, sighing contentedly, you’re out like a light in no time at all.

* * *

You’re floating in a cozy circle of warmth, tucked up against softness over hard-packed muscle. There’s a noise coming from far-off, a tapping. Birds, probably. You shift, and instantly the coziness makes sense; the contentment hits before you even open your eyes. You fell asleep with Cas and Dean tucked around you on this grace-embiggened back seat.

The tapping sound comes again, and you blink groggily up at the early morning light. That’s not a bird, that’s—

That’s Mary Winchester, fighting a smile as she waggles her fingers on the other side of the window. “Morning.”

“Crap,” you mutter as Dean and Cas start to stir. You’re practically on Dean’s chest, and he twists to squint toward the window.

“Oh, Jesus,” he rasps, sitting up so fast he nearly cracks his head on the ceiling.

“Got it,” Cas murmurs, almost imperceptible, and touches your bare leg beneath his coat-turned-blanket; your jeans spring back into place. He does the same for Dean, who manages not to flinch in surprise as he reaches for the door handle.

Which slips out of his grasp, locked. He fumbles at it with sleep-clumsy fingers.

Cas says, “I can, uh,” and the window begins to slide down, slow and a little squeaky.

Mary looks down like she’s losing her smile battle before leaning her arms on the sill. “Morning,” she says again, somehow straight-faced. “I was gonna grab coffee at the gas station next door. Anybody need anything?”

“Um.” Dean gulps. “I, yeah, I’ll—lemme go with you.”

“Sure.” Mary steps away.

Dean glances back at the two of you, apologetic and terrified both. Then he cranks the finally-unlocked door open and climbs out, falling into step beside his mom as they begin to walk.

You and Cas dare to breathe. “Shit,” you whisper, twisting to watch them through the back window. You peer out with your fingertips on top of the seat. “Last night, we talked, and she knew about you two.”

Cas smooths sleep-stuck hair from your face. “What did she think?”

“She was totally cool with you two. She. . .” You turn back, sinking down in the seat. “She seemed really happy for you guys.”

“But you’re afraid she won’t feel the same about you.”

Your face feels hot again. “I mean. Yeah. Dean and you are one thing, but, a—a third person, that’s. . . shit, I mean, I’ve never. . .”

“Neither have I.” Cas twines your fingers together, and lifts your knuckles to his lips. “Neither has Dean. But we don’t want to be us without you anymore.” He smiles when you burrow in close, tucking an arm around you. “We’ll figure out the rest. As for Mary—it’s like you said. I think she’ll be happy if her sons are happy. If that means a non-traditional relationship, well then. . .” Those big blue eyes flicker over to yours, even bluer in the morning light. “I think anyone can learn to live with that.”

“Hope you’re right,” you whisper, and cling a little tighter.

After a moment, the two of you decide it’s time to get up, and get out. Cas unlocks the door to your room so you have a place to change and freshen up a bit. When you both step out again, Dean and Mary are walking back across the lot.

Dean looks bashful as all hell, but he smiles when he sees you and Cas. He’s carrying a cardboard tray full of coffees, and holds it aloft in greeting. Mary’s holding her own coffee, and a bag of breakfast goodies.

When he gets close, Mary squeezes his shoulder, then heads back toward the room.

You and Cas study Dean, meeting at the side of the car. Exactly where you were last night. You can’t help but ask: “Everything okay?”

He sets the coffees on the roof and makes a _let me think about it_ face. “You know,” he says, handing a cup to you, and one to Cas, “I’m starting to wonder if that woman was into some strange shit back in the seventies.”

Cas makes such a delightfully puzzled face that you nearly giggle. “How do you mean?”

“Because she didn’t even bat an eye when I laid it—this—” He flaps a hand. “— _us_ —out for her. She said she guessed about me’n you, Cas, and wondered about you, kiddo, because apparently we were, uh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Giving you these, ah. These _looks,_ when you weren’t looking. And you were apparently doing the same thing?”  

“Oh my god.” You rub your temples. “I thought I was being subtle.”

“Us, too,” says Cas, surprisingly pink-cheeked.

“Well, not to mom, apparently.” Dean gathers you up with an arm around your shoulder. “And yeah, kid,” he says, warm. “Everything’s okay.” He kisses you, brief but clinging, exactly the kind of tenderness you always noticed and craved between him and Cas.

“I could get used to seeing _that_ all the time,” Cas murmurs, and just for the hell of it, you wrap a hand around his lapel and pull him in for a kiss, too.

All three of you flinch back at the sound of a door shutting. Sam, on the other side of the lot, is standing in front of his room with his bag over his shoulder, staring at the three of you with his jaw hanging. He points, starting forward. “I knew it,” he says, grinning while you laugh and half-hide into Cas. “Damn it, I _knew_ something was going on with you three.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” grumbles Dean.

“I’ll shut up if one of those coffees is for me,” says Sam. 

“Here.” Dean holds the last one aloft as Sam comes around the car. “Skinny vanilla fuck you.” But he’s grinning.

Sam takes it, lifts it up. “Cheers, you guys.”

“Cheers, Sam,” you agree, and nudge your foam cup against his. Cas does it, too, and then looks expectantly at Dean.

“ _Fine_ ,” Dean says, and taps his cup to Sam’s. When he goes for a sip, though, he winks at you and Cas. “Mom should be out in a second. Then we can get this show on the road.”

“Good,” Sam sighs. “Can’t wait to get home.”

“Yeah,” says Dean. He glances at you and Cas, almost shy now. Warmth rises in your heart, and you can’t help but smile so big that he echoes it when he adds, “Yeah, me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the sequel [here](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com/post/157997452628/catch-and-release-part-1-of-2).
> 
> Squee with me on tumblr @[sp-oops](http://sp-oops.tumblr.com).


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